


Drabble Collection

by ElfiesInk



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drabbles, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-08-26 11:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 45
Words: 50,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16680697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElfiesInk/pseuds/ElfiesInk
Summary: Works imported from my tumblr, nothing too long. Might bring the nsfw stuff in here eventually.





	1. Moonlighting (Reinhardt Wilhelm / Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of these drabbles are older works, I haven't had too much time for drabbling lately. I hope to get back into it soon.

They say don’t meet your heroes. That it’ll break your heart and break you. That they won’t be anything like you thought they would be. You never paid the phrase much mind. Meeting your hero would be impossible. You grew up with a poster of your hero on your wall. He was everything you wanted to be. Strong, brave, larger than life. A real knight in modern times. You doubted Reinhardt Wilhem would fail to live up to the dream you built up, but it didn’t matter. The two of you would never meet. That’s just the way it was.

You eventually outgrew your poster, though you never threw it away. You kept it folded up in your dresser. Safe and tucked away for when you really needed to remember what you were trying to be. You didn’t really hit the mark. Working for a high tech security company wasn’t exactly heroic. It was just, a job.

Most of it was boring too. The cobra suits were less flashy than other Helix teams; stealth was the name of the game. Black, save for the slightly visible scales on the gloves and boots. Because that was enough decoration. The hood didn’t even have anything on it. Slick, utilitarian, nondescript. Members of the cobra team were meant to protect less secure sites, hiding in plain sight in the crowds around their designated ward. Few folk knew about Helix’s cobras. It was intentional, but it also meant that most people in your life thought you were a desk jockey. No one understood why you frequently sported bruises on the way home. The suit blocked bullets but geeze. They still hurt.

Stealth. Ambush and eliminate. That was what your team did. So it confused you when the captain of the raptora squad messaged you out of nowhere asking for immediate aid. It confused you more when the message was signed ‘do not clock in’. You went. Amari wouldn’t have called if she didn’t think it was important.

You heard the rockets first. Explosions, one after another, followed by the sound of gunshots. Shouts and screams and trouble. You slowed down. Slunk through the shadows. Let your hood fall over your face. Tactical read-outs flashed. Body heat was identified. A pair of thin daggers slid from your gloves, the suit already dispensing a thin spray of clear unremarkable fluid onto them. From the dark alley you were crouching in you could see Amari clear in the sky. She wasn’t alone. But this was not the raptora squad.

It didn’t matter. Their enemies were polite enough to have come in uniform. Easily identifiable. When one got too close you sprung, daggers digging into his neck, a dead man before you pulled him back into the darkness. Amari was a fantastic distraction. You wished it would be easier to pull other teams into cobra operations. There was something nice about flashy jet packs drawing eyes away from you and your knives. Maybe you could still employ something similar. Snipers maybe. Fireworks?

One of their augmented caught sight of you as you left a trail of bodies behind. A massive man, coming at you with two guns too fast for you to dodge. His charge was too fast for you to dodge and you ended up breathless in a heap. He lowered the barrels of his machine guns just as you managed to take a last breath.

Poetic.

The shield flashed in front of you at the last second, the bullets causing cracks but not getting through. A second flash and a capsule cracks around you, surrounding your body in a flickering yellow shield. At your side is a pair of armored allies, one who was… very familiar.

“I’ve got you!”

You were a professional. Professionals stay calm. You do not get excited. You do not get flustered. There is a battle to end, as quickly as possible to avoid casualties. You hate having casualties. You reach into the pouch on your back and pull out a large cylindrical canister. You press a few buttons to begin arming the device.

“Amari. Get your people behind cover.” You murmur into your comm. There’s a moment of silence before you hear her shouting. Another shield flickers on the other side of the hoard of enemies and you throw the canister out. It bounced for a second, rolling to the stop in the center of the group before exploding. Thousands of barbed spikes, coated in the same toxin on your knifes, rocketed into the bodies surrounding them. Even if the poison didn’t get to them the giant shrapnel cloud probably would. You had always considered it overkill. Who needed to fill a bomb with poison and spikes. And then give it to a security team. A stealth security team. Let’s give them the cobras poison grenades. Yes sounds good. Let’s put spikes in them too. I’m sorry what?

“Haha! Excellent!” Reinhardt Wilhelm laughed, towering over you in a pose straight from one of your old desktop backgrounds. You didn’t even know he was still alive. The young woman next to him gave you a smile before charging in with swing of a flail. You shook the surprise off, slipping into her shadow, striking at anyone who attempted to get around her shield.

You kept an eye on Reinhardt as your allies converged on the remaining troops. The swing of his hammer, the finesse in which he dropped his shield at just the right times. His armored form was always so conveniently placed between the healers and an enemy shot. You were good, and perhaps you were far stealthier, but watching him felt like, like seeing a fairy tale come to life. A real living legend close enough to touch.

“Thanks for coming.” Amari shook your hand. “We needed just a bit more help, I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.” It occurred to you to ask what was going on. It really did. But it was sort of, drowned out, by an enthusiastic hand being thrust your way.

“A friend of Fareeha’s then, are you? Name’s Reinhardt Wilhelm, a pleasure to meet you.” He took your hand in his, raising it towards his face.

“Poison! I um. I deal in toxins, there are trace amounts on my gloves.” Professionals do not get embarrassed or notice a co-worker giving a suspiciously entertained smile out of the corner of your eyes. Reinhardt’s smile was a lot warmer, gently lowering your hand back down and chuckling.

“Then I will have to wait till another day. Are you joining us, Captain?” It took you too long to take your hand back. Way too long. You focused on the still-grinning Amari, hoping you could get your composure back.

“Joining you?”

“… Overwatch. I told them you might be willing, and that this was a good time for introductions.” Amari sounded hopeful. You looked at the mismatched group surrounding her. And then at your actual hero smiling at you with the warmest glint in his eyes. You smiled. Don’t meet your heroes hm?

“Yeah… I think I could get in a little moonlighting.”


	2. Get Hammered (Reinhardt Wilhelm x Reader)

Reinhardt Wilhelm was one of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen. He was also a passionate, noble man dedicated to helping people. His loyalty knew no bounds. You weren’t a soft person, not really gentle or caring. Your primary reason for joining the new Overwatch was pure spite. Moira O'Deorain had pulled strings to cut the funding for your neurotoxin project. Of course, you had already finished it by that point. But she still fucking did it. So you wanted her to suffer for it.

So you weren’t the hero that Reinhardt was. But damn if you weren’t head over heels for him. You just accepted that you weren’t the type of person he’d be into. He probably wanted, or had, another hero on his mind. Someone who would rush in to save someone without a thought for themselves. Someone who was bright and happy and kind. Probably not the scientist who developed deadly toxins for funsies.

You darted out from behind Reinhardt to stab a few opponents with rapid slashes, the poison delivered into your syringe-like weapons from the small tank on your side. It didn’t take a lot to kill someone, just a touch. And then you were back behind Reinhardt and his shield. The enemies that tried to chase you down got a hammer to the face.

The fact that you didn’t have to worry too much about watching your back when Reinhardt was around made things so much harder. He was protecting you, he clearly considered you a friend and colleague. He was so sweet to you.

Motherfucker.

The last sweep of the area took out the last remaining enemies, leaving you to seek out the safety of the ship. Or at least, a corner where you can pretend that you aren’t having an increasingly hard time keeping your emotions down. You didn’t want this to interfere with your usefulness, both in the field and at base. You also didn’t want this to get you kicked out of Overwatch. You were a useful agent, yes. But not quite as useful as Reinhardt, and you weren’t part of that inner circle of old-agency returns.

Maybe you should have taken Moira’s offer. Living in Oasis and working for her was probably a lot easier than slowly dying because your brain decided now is a good time for Feelings.

Getting back to base was blissful. You could go have a cold shower, cry a bit, shove your head into your research and try to find a way to be more helpful. Maybe spend some time in the training area letting robots shoot at you. You could always use a little more flexibility. Maybe some enhancing gear? You would need to consult with Torbjorn.

“Welcome back. How’d it go Reinhardt?” Bridgette was waiting in the hangar when the two of you returned. The perfect distraction while you made your getaway.

“Wonderful! We are both safe and no civilians were harmed. I just wish I could have shown our enemies even more of the hammer.” Reinhardt grinned.

“Could always show me the hammer.” You muttered. You thought you were being quiet. You were not. You were fairly audible to all involved and it took too long for you to realize what just came out of your fucking mouth.

“Did I just-” You met Bridgette’s shocked eyes and confirmed that yes. Yes you did.

“… Well. I’m going to go join Talon I’ll see you all later where hopefully Captain Amari shoots me in the face.” You made your way out of the hangar as quickly as you could without actively running. If you ran people would ask questions and you did not need people to know that you experienced human emotions. You knew for a fucking fact Moira could fix that, talk about a sign-on bonus.

You weren’t kidding about the Talon thing there was only one way to react to this and it was by completely overreacting.

“Ah, wait!” Reinhardt apparently had no problem with running through the halls. You tried to pretend like you didn’t hear a giant armor covered man running after you, but he caught up to you. A gloved hand grabbed your shoulder, turning you to face him. Him and his fucking perfect face. So filled with worry and… something. Something else. Damnit why didn’t you fucking take human behavior the class was Right There.

“I… Do you…” He took a deep breath and gave you a strangely rougish smile that both suited him and felt wildly out of place. “I would show you my hammer anytime.”

You couldn’t help it you laughed. Laughed until tears started to form in your eyes and you had to lean against Reinhardt for support. He chuckled, holding you loosely in his arms, gazing down at you with all of the worry gone and all of the … happiness?

“Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me this evening?” Reinhardt asked softly. Your mirth vanished almost instantly into surprise, and a soft smile came to your face.

“Yes. I would really like that.”

He gently leaned over you, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before departing to remove his armor. Looks like you won’t be joining Talon after all.


	3. Your Knight (Reinhardt Wilhelm x Reader)

When Dr. Ziegler asked you if you wouldn’t mind doing some nonprofit with her, you hadn’t expected to be patching up vigilante heroes in a secret base in Spain. But you didn’t regret agreeing. You were doing good, and you had the opportunity to really get to know your patients. Not every nurse was so lucky.

You had your favorites of course. Roadhog was always so quiet and cooperative. Ms. Mei was so sweet and polite. And then there was Reinhardt Wilhelm. The man was, something. You’d never met someone so tall, so strong. You also hadn’t known someone so kind. So noble. So brave. You tried hard to avoid admitting that you had any kind of feelings for him but. Well, he was like a knight straight out of a fairy tale. Hell, he was a knight fairy tale or no. Who wouldn’t feel a little bit smitten?

You had years of professional training to keep you calm and collected whenever you were in his presence. And you were often. Even the best missions had him coming home battered and bruised. You knew he had an important job shielding the other agents during battle but, still. So many bruises.

You sighed as you took a catalog of the injuries covering the man’s body. Bruised ribs, luckily not broken. Lacerations on the arms, thankfully don’t need stitches. There’s a nasty bruise on his leg and a sizeable scrape on his forehead. Not the worst condition he’s ever come to you with, certainly not bad enough for you to wake Dr. Ziegler, or one of the medics. No, you were more than enough to take care of some cuts.

He was so patient as you worked over him, securing ice packs and dressing the cuts on his arms. His eyes never wandered or left you. He never looked like he was thinking about anything else. You had his undivided attention, and he had yours. It was just a professional courtesy, of course. You were a good nurse and a skilled medical care provider but you weren’t anything special. You weren’t a genius creating medical technology that was lightyears ahead of everything else. You weren’t a sharpshooter or an explosives expert or anything like the amazing people that surrounded you every day. There was no reason for you to be noticed beyond what was professionally necessary.

You paused when Reinhardt winced… or sighed? Either way, your hand hovered above his forehead. “Are you alright, Mr. Reinhardt?”

“Oh, yes I- I am just lost in my thoughts.” He smiled unconvincingly at you. This was never a man who seemed lost in this thoughts. You frowned and flicked your eyes to his cut.

“How bad was your head injury? Do I need to call Dr. Ziegler?”

“It is just a scrape, on my own helmet. Your care is all I need.” His smile was a little more genuine now. His eyes focused and steady. His hands twitched slightly at his sides.

“…Are you nauseous? Have a headache? Light sensitivity?” You questioned, still not entirely believing him. You moved without meaning to, gently brushing his hair away from his face. Reinhardt stiffened and looked at you agape. Oh. Oh that was a bit familiar wasn’t it. You had just done it too like it was nothing like you thought about it all the time. This was mortifying. This was the one thing too embarrassing for your years of nursing. You jumped back, heat leaping to your face, words babbling out of your mouth.

“Oh I’m, I’m so sorry I didn’t, I wasn’t thinking and that, Oh I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable I just- I just don’t want you to have a concussion or anyth-Are you sure you don’t want me to get Dr. Ziegler because I’m sure she has very valid medical opinions and it’s totally understandable if you don’t want to work with me that was weird and I am just so so sorry I-”

Reinhardt reached out, grabbing your wringing hands in his. He gently guided you back to his side. He was smiling. It was a soft, gentle, understanding smile. But it was also a relieved, joyous smile. There was a new light in his eyes.

“Shhh, shhh. There’s no need to be so worried, you didn’t offend me. I was just surprised. I didn’t think you might…” He dropped off. Which really just kept your anxiety riding high. Living its life. Going to all the anxiety parties and swapping texts with your mind-numbing worry.

“Reinhardt?”

“May I kiss you?” Reinhardt asked, looking up at you with a worry of his own. Your emotions compounded and threatened to make you cry, laugh, or give some awful combination that would easily ruin the situation. You had 15 seconds before your brain beat you in a dark alleyway and made its decision. So you leaned forward and kissed him. He released your hands, moving to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you close. You slid your hands up his chest to curl your arms around his neck. When you both pulled away you were out of breath, he was flushed pink with the brightest grin.

“Your kiss is everything I thought it would be. Like hearing music for the first time.” He laughed, kissing you again. You giggle with him and finally relax into his arms. All the nervous pressure you’d been carrying with you disappeared in a wisp. It was all mutual.

You felt so light. You covered his face with kisses, delighting in his laugh and the feel of his arms around you. You pause and remember the scrape on his forehead. “Oh!”

“Oh that’s nothing, an excuse to see your lovely face. Less fussing, more kissing.” He didn’t move to stop you from cleaning the scrape or bandaging it. There would have been no stopping you. You’d had a patient pull a knife on you and that didn’t stop you. Kisses never would. They were nicer though. You really wish people would stop bringing knives to hospitals.

“You can see me without getting hurt whenever you want, my silly knight.” You snort as you finish checking him over.

“I am your knight, hm?” Reinhardt’s grin broadened and he raised a hand to stroke your face. Light as always, like he was reaching out to stroke glass. You leaned into his hand.

“Yes. Mine.”


	4. Vacation Time (Roadhog x Reader)

You rarely took vacations. There just wasn’t time. There was always something that needed doing. In your line of work, there was always something that needed guarding or someone that needed shooting. As much as you would have killed for a moment to just lie down and relax you didn’t have that luxury. Until now.

Throwing your old life away to become a ‘hero’ was never in your thoughts. You were part of Overwatch, once. But you never thought you were a hero. You were just a soldier, doing your job. Following orders. It wasn’t a home to you like it was to so many others. It was just, a job. When it all came down the only thing you felt was a worry about your own safety and stability. When it all came back, you were ready to overlook it. To walk past it. To move on. But you didn’t. You heard the call and you showed up. There was enough money in your savings to keep yourself stable, and you still took merc jobs when they became available. For the most part you belonged to this new Overwatch. This new world.

You felt out of place. You weren’t really, morally motivated. You were there to help because… you weren’t sure why. You didn’t have a reason not to. So you went. It was a place to stay, work to do. There was a training area and showers and other people to socialize with outside of helping someone pull their machete out of a skull. Most of them were friendly acquaintances at best. You didn’t have anyone you really clicked with until the Junkers arrived.

They were there for money. But they were also there because they didn’t have a reason not to. They were your drinking buddies, the people you casually hung out with. Rarely your co-workers though. You had the sort of military structure that would drive both of them up the wall. But for most other things, it was a good fit.

You were, particularly fond of Roadhog. You had told him a few times. Of course each time you were drunk off your fucking ass, hardly able to stay sitting on your stool. He was strong. Stoic. Cute as fuck. The night would start with a few drinks and inevitably you would slap some cash down on the counter and demand that the 'incredibly fine and hot man who you fucking liked’ get served their best whatever. You would drink for a little while longer and then remind him, again, that you thought he was great. Eventually, you would lean on him and cry about how adorable you found his tattoo. He would carry you back to base while you stroked his mask and made kissy faces at him. You would wake up with a killer hangover and a bottle of water with some aspirins on your nightstand.

You figured he didn’t quite like you back. Not enough to tell you to knock it off, but enough that he didn’t return your feelings. Which was unfortunate. Because you did like him. A lot.

It was a rare mission with the Junkers. Somehow you and Junkrat didn’t clash and the job got done quicker than it was supposed to. Winston admitted that he wouldn’t be able to get you back to base for another week. So, vacation time. You managed to find a little beachside cabin rental that was far enough from people to keep the boys out of trouble. It was fucking expensive and took an entire merc job’s worth of cash to pay for it. But it was better than spending your rare time off getting into fights with cops.

It was pretty nice. Quiet. Not too hot. Not too cold. Junkrat was fucking around in the water and you were only vaguely watching to make sure he didn’t drown. You and Roadhog were lounging on chairs in the shade. Roadhog was reading, something and you were just. Relaxing. Thinking. Letting the clouds drift by.

“What are you thinking about.”

You looked up to notice Roadhog had put his book down and was looking at you, looking at the sky. You tell yourself to make something up but, you don’t. You just sigh and look back at the clouds.

“You. Also I need to pee but can’t be bothered to get up. Mostly you though.” It was the truth. He was on your mind a lot. You wished you could get over him. It would happen eventually but for now. There was a lot of you. And a lot of him. And a lot of things that will never happen.

“Drunk already?”

You frowned over at him. “No, I haven’t had anything to drink since we got here. Might be a good idea though.”

Roadhog made a disbelieving noise and you sat up.

“It’s true. I’ll prove it.” You sat on the arm of his chair and flicked his mask. “Smell my breath.”

You didn’t think he’d actually slip his mask up and lean forward, but he did. So you huffed at him.

“Your breath stinks.”

“Ahhh, but not like alcohol, does it?” You grinned, triumphantly. Roadhog was quiet for a moment, nodding but not saying anything. You decided to celebrate your victory by getting incredibly drunk. Just, real next level drunk. Blackout so hard you make the neighbors forget what they were doing.

Roadhog caught your arm, pulling you back towards him. “It’s different when you’re sober.”

You looked at him confused for a second before slowly understanding. Did he think you were just an affectionate drunk? That would be really fucking confusing judging from the amount of bar fights you’d been in. You sat back on the chair arm, leaning into him.

“Alright, let me try sober then. I like you. You’re hot. Your tattoo is cute.” You kissed the nose of his mask. “How’s that. I mean. Aside from the gross breath that’s just a fact of life.”

Roadhog pushed his mask back up, pulling you close and kissing you. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, it was rough and hard and you ran out of air far too quickly. But you weren’t a gentle person. You took the quickest breath you could before sliding onto his lap, nipping at his lip until he kissed you again. You only stopped because you needed to breathe, looking over the weather beaten face of the man you loved.

You ran your tongue over your slightly swollen lips and grinned at him. “Wanna know what I’m thinking now?”

Roadhog chuckled. “I have an idea.”


	5. Here (Roadhog x Reader)

There was only one real rule to working in the underworld. Never show your weakness. Lie about it sure. Tell someone that you were afraid of spiders, or that you didn’t like apricots. Make friends. But don’t tell them the truth. Your lives together will be a carefully weaved masterwork of lies. It’s the only safe thing to do. Alternatives were… bloody.

You suppose it’s ironically funny, or at least amusing, that you are particularly lacking in self-confidence. It’s not that you don’t think you’re good at your job or anything. If you weren’t then you wouldn’t be getting paid. It was just hard to look at the mirror and see value. Hard to look at your life as anything more than series of lackluster bullet points on a disappointing resume. The logical part of you said this was unlikely but the stronger part of you kept the thought pulsing and alive in the palm of its hand.

When you’re hired to rob someone’s competitor alongside a pair of notorious criminals you just nod and greet the junkers the same you would any other peer. They were good at what they did and deserved respect. You told them as much, when the more explosive one questioned your manners. You thought nothing of the way Roadhog turned to look at you. His mask didn’t show anything noteworthy so you ignored it. You did your job.

It was a surprise when you were invited to join them. It wasn’t much of an invitation, really. Roadhog simply scooped you up and dropped you into a sidecar alongside Junkrat. There was some initial indignation, the two of you weren’t the best of friends, but a glance from Roadhog quieted everything down.

You never protested much. The money was good. The partners were dependable. Despite his limb situation you quickly gained confidence in Junkrat’s skills. Even more so in Roadhog’s. Anytime a threat got close to you he hooked them away. Finished your troubles with a single well placed shotgun blast. His presence on a job meant safety and safety meant success. It was your policy to complete a job regardless of complications. If you lived then you would patch your wounds and take your pay. If you died doing it then you simply died.

Junkrat called you reckless once. You don’t argue, even if it’s a bit pot and kettle of him.

You’re alone with Roadhog when it slips out. You don’t even mean to, don’t realize what you’re doing or why. You’re just leaning back, going over the encrypted emails from prospective clients, from contacts offering you leads to pay off debts, from strangers trying to make contact. Trying to decide if you liked money more than you liked not going anywhere near Oasis. Junkrat’s comment slips through your mind and out past your lips.

“Am I reckless?”

You don’t seek reassurance. It’s the same as admitting your weakness and that is not a game you play. But you asked.

“Wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.” Roadhog muttered, audibly flipping through the pages of his magazine. “Doesn’t matter. I’m here.”

You didn’t respond. Mostly because you didn’t want to acknowledge your own slip up. Pretend that it didn’t happen and you could give yourself an opportunity to erase it from memory. Cover it up with more proof of your efficiency and skill. You tried to think things through more but, ultimately you kept your habits. When plans fell through you pushed to keep going. Ignored people taking shots at you to force your way into safes and vaults and whatever was standing between you and your goal. A man almost got a shot off inches from your face. The hook was on him before you could blink. You kept working through the wet scream, the boom, the heavy splat, the silence.

Roadhog touched you more frequently as time went on. At first it was light shoves, not enough to hurt you but enough to move you. Then it was, just touches, to guide you in a direction. Then it was hands over your shoulder, on your arm, on your head. Your face. A rough thumb wiping a thin line of blood off your cheek.

You did not want to take a solo job. Your attachment to the junkers was another weakness for you to throw into the darkest parts of you where no one would ever know. But the junkers were tired, you knew the client and the money was good. Perhaps you could buy something nice for the three of you. A new part for Roadhog’s bike maybe. Some new materials for Junkrat’s bombs. Some tea for you and Mako to enjoy while the two of you had your little moments reading in silence together.

The job didn’t go… well. You were spotted almost immediately, enough to make you suspicious of the intentions of your client. Betrayal wouldn’t be unlikely. It wasn’t something that you’d fuss over. You would just delete the contact and move on. But you were too caught up in finishing what you’d started to pay much mind to the politics of thieving. You would not allow them the satisfaction of killing you while you were running away. Pride was a vice. It was uncomfortable working through the groups of armed mercenaries trying to kill you alone. You were so used to having partners. Another weakness to add to the list. How many of your clients knew you were part of a group now? Which would also attempt to take advantage?

There was a bomb waiting at the artifacts you were trying to recover. It was between you and them, between you and your pay, between you and failure. You couldn’t get through without dying. The bomb was ticking down, ready to explode whether you went in or not. Just as the last few ticks clogged your ears a hook slipped through your harness and dragged you into a pair of strong arms that spun and shielded you from the explosion’s shrapnel.

“There are people hunting me.” The first words out of your mouth. Not a thank you or a hello. You just gave a statement. You were stunned, frightened. You shouldn’t have been. Betrayal happened all the time. It wasn’t an if but a when. It was how things worked in the underground.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m here.” Roadhog huffed, motioning for you to grab what you could and follow him out. It was easier, cleaner, safer. Your earlier mistakes weren’t easily repeated when he was at your back. You quietly removed that client from your contacts, purged every trace of a connection between the two of you as Roadhog drove you back to Junkrat.

It’s not until days later, when it’s just you and Roadhog sitting quietly, close enough to touch but not quite touching, that you finally address it. “Thank you for coming for me.”

You don’t expect Roadhog to say anything back. It wasn’t really something to have a conversation about. It happened and you owed him but that was it. He doesn’t answer you, but he does shift until his arm is ever so slightly touching yours. He’s warm and relaxing and you begin to feel safe.

Part of you worries you have another weakness to add to the list.

You ignore it. There are other things to concentrate on. Joining Overwatch took almost all of your patience and energy. You didn’t understand why the junkers were even remotely interested in the venture. There was no profit to be made. Connections, sure, but not any connections that would pan out in your line of work. Knowing a doctor was great but why would a doctor like Ziegler help a criminal?

Perhaps there was more to it. Some desire to be something more. Something good. You could see the appeal but couldn’t see it apply to you. You were what you were.There was no changing that, no fixing it, no becoming anything else. The world could always use more heroes but it couldn’t use you. Not like this. You wanted to leave.

Roadhog wouldn’t hear it. Every time you tried to casually mention taking a quick side job or slipping out on your own for a ‘vacation’ he just looked at you and shook his head and mentioned training or a mission or helping him with some task that would distract you just long enough.You tried again, after a rough mission that left you tired and sore. Blood on your hands and bodies left behind. Did heroes kill like you did?

“I think I might take off for a bit.” You muttered, sitting in the small little room Roadhog was assigned, picking at your bandages. Roadhog sighed and put down his tea. He stood up and approached you, his large hands cupping your face.

“Why.”

The question caught you off guard. Everything about Roadhog caught you off guard.

“Because I’m not, I’m not a hero or even a vigilante, I’m a killer and a murderer and a thief and a liar and I don’t belong here. I can’t, I can never be what any of these people are. I’m not good enough, I don’t belong.” You felt tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. His thumbs caught them before you could wipe them away. Roadhog removed his hands, removed his mask, and leaned down to stare you in the eyes.

“What do I always tell you.”

You frowned. “What?”

“When you have these… moments. What do I always tell you.”

You tilt your head, thinking. “It, doesn’t matter?”

“I’m here.” Roadhog finished, gently pressing his lips to yours. “I’m here, and you’re fine. Come on. Sit with me.”

You spent the afternoon in his arms, reading a book together, his scruffy cheek pressed against yours. The anxiety was slow to leave but you weren’t alone while it was there. There’s only one real rule to working in the underworld. But you aren’t really working there anymore, were you?


	6. Bad Decisions (Moira O'Deorain x Reader)

Your life was never easy, but you found a way to survive by keeping quiet. People don’t notice things that don’t make noise so you faded even further into the background, faded far enough to get yourself into a nasty type of business. Turned out good people can afford to tune out the little things. Bad people, they’re a bit more paranoid. A bit more observant. A bit more questioning. Still. It’s easy enough to get in their good graces if you’re skilled enough. Bad people need weapons. You make them, and you do it well.

You knew what was going to happen. Heard enough conversations of talented people getting caught up in something Big. So when a man came to your workshop with his metal gauntlet and a smile you knew where you were going and just accepted it. The money was good, the coworkers were, acceptable. Most of the time you were alone in your workshop and then she started showing up.

Moira. She had a last name but she only gave you the first, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and a hand tipped in claws. You didn’t trust her. That seemed to make her like you more. At first she came to inspect your work, pour over the details, fingers tracing over the lines of your schematics were she muttered your notes under her breath. Sometimes she spoke her thoughts louder in gaelic. Either way she spoke your thoughts aloud like it was poetry and not merely a short hand text meant to remind yourself to test two different metals for this section. You never spoke back, never turned her aria into a duet. Barely looked at her at all. You kept your focus on your work, your thoughts to yourself.

“I like the support structure you’ve laid out for this.” Moira murmured, lounging at one of your desks with the beginnings of an exo suit design in her hands. She’d been in your workshop for hours. Too long. You didn’t quite understand why a geneticist would be so very interested in the work of a weapons engineer.

Her long arms appeared to wrap around your shoulders, chin poking into the top of your head, voice murmuring soft and calm. “What improvements would you make to my gear?”

You kept your eyes focused on your newest set of blueprints. “I would lighten the rig first, make it more compact and easier to put on. It wouldn’t be too difficult to preserve the amount of biotics you carry while lightening the impact on your spine.”

Her gear had to be unpleasant to carry, though Moira seemed to do so with such effortless grace. She moved so light, so fluid, so elegant. Still, a little bit of added comfort in an uncomfortable situation had to help. Her gear should suit her too. Elegant and deadly in its design and function. The bulky pack failed to emphasize her properly. Though perhaps a high collar in the back would still look good. There was little Moira couldn’t pull off. She was pretty.

“I would enjoy such a collaboration. Your mind creates interesting details.” She reached out and traced the line you were drawing. She knew you thought she was pretty. Knew too much about you from her observations. You knew too much about her as well. Neither of you could be happy about that, could you.

“Is that why you’re in here so often?” You didn’t intend to talk to her. Especially not to ask her that. You weren’t the most tactful but you were fairly sure that was rude. She didn’t seem to mind. She just kept following your hand around the page.

“I suppose so. Perhaps I just enjoy your company.” Moira pulled you away from your desk, spinning your chair to face her. She cupped your face in her hands with a confident smile. You frowned, narrowing your eyes at her. There was no doubt that Moira was quite pretty. Stunning, if you were to be flowery about it. You were rarely flowery.

“That would be a bad decision on both our parts.” You muttered. But you still stood up from your chair with the slightest nudge of her hands on your skin. You still slipped your arms around her, closing the distance. She smirked, smug and pleased.

“Something worth exploring though, don’t you agree?” Moira leaned closer, smiling, her lips so close to yours. Tantalizing. People made horrible decisions all the time. People did things they shouldn’t all the time. You usually did everything you could to do the right thing. But this. This was not the right thing to do. Didn’t stop you from pressing your lips to hers, tasting her tongue on yours, gripping her clothing in your fingers.

Oh well. Who needed to make things easy.


	7. Smoke and Mirrors (Moira O'Deorain x Reader)

Moira O’Deorain was a scientist. She dealt in facts, figures, statistics. Causes and effects. Reality. But that didn’t mean she didn’t believe in the impossible. The impossible was just a question for her to answer. The impossible was a puzzle to be solved. The impossible, was you.

You were a strange sort of sunlight. Every room you stepped into felt lighter, brighter, warmer. You would smile and she would feel her throat constrict ever so slightly. You would laugh and she would feel her head go dizzy. If you touched her… If you touched her it was like her skin was fire and yours ice. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Perhaps you were the sun given physical form. The idea made Moira laugh. You even inspired poetry in her.

What were you?

A magician, you told her. Promised her that you were nothing but smoke and mirrors and illicit activities. And yet… when she saw you in action. The things you did defied explanation.You whispered commands and objects moved. You snapped your fingers and lightning shattered the ground. You laughed and drew from a deck of cards and winked. You told Talon to call you Tarot.

They weren’t tricks, Moira knew that. You knew she knew and seemed to regard the situation with amusement. It was a game at best. Could she figure it out? Could she find the truth behind your abilities? The secrets that you had written with ink on paper and bound in heavy leather. It was just for aesthetic, you would chuckle. Like your boots and your cloaks and your overly gaudy hat. Your bags and your gloves and the tattoos on your shoulders that never seem to match day to day. She wanted to trace the lines on your skin until they shifted under her fingertips. Until she saw them move like she knew they did.

Moira found you in her lab, lounging on a chair, one leg hung over an arm while you lazily shuffled your cards. You stopped when you met her eyes and fanned out the cards.

“Pick a card, pick any card.” You offered.

“I don’t care for your tricks.” A lie, easily seen through. She didn’t care to see them performed. Moira would love the chance to learn how they worked though. And here you were in her lab. All she had to do was draw a little blood, do a little test, do anything besides approach you and reach for the cards.

“Oh? So you already know what you’ll pull?” You smiled. This close and she could see the ink peeking out from behind your collar. Roses and thorny vines today. Ensnaring and beautiful. She drew one of the cards and frowned at the illustration.

“The Fool, hm?” Moira did not show you the card and yet. You knew. Perhaps you had loaded the deck or perhaps you had it positioned just slightly out ahead… Or perhaps… perhaps…You pushed yourself out of the chair and stood almost too close for comfort.

“It means new beginnings. Care for another?” You hummed and kept the cards out. Moira felt… disquieted. And yet hopeful. You were approachable and distant at the same time. Inviting and warning. You dangled the truth on a string and yanked it back time and time again. Sure she could have asked someone to wrangle you for her but… Moira was quite content with the rest of Talon keeping their hands off of you. Besides, the chance to learn was within her grasp. So she took another card.

“Hm. The Magician. Resourcefulness. Another?” A brush of hands against hands. Intentional on her part, if she were honest with herself. Moira drew the third card and raised her eyebrows. You laughed and plucked ‘The Lovers’ out of her hand.

“Coincidence and clever words. You don’t believe this, do you?” You tucked the cards back into the deck. Your eyes didn’t leave hers. A challenge. An invitation.

Your lips tasted like honey and mead.

“And here…Here I thought you didn’t want to get close.” Moira murmured, forehead resting against yours. You kept your arms tight around her and chuckled.

“Didn’t? Ha, I thought I was flirting with you. You seem to like the unknown.” You wiggled your eyebrows at her. “Care to give me an inspection, doctor?”

Moira shook her head slowly and buried her face in the crook of your neck. She could see the ink shifting but it didn’t change into the geometric patterns you sometimes wore, or the birds in flight, or the minimalist deer that gazed out from your skin. Instead the rose bloomed outwards and her face was filled with petals and a floral scent.

“I’m going to find out how you do that.” She muttered, taking the rose in her hand and examining it.

“I thought you didn’t care for my tricks.” You teased. Moira kissed you again and delighted in your lips.

“I care for you.”


	8. Consequences (Gabriel "Reaper" Reyes x Reader)

You have been in Gabriel Reyes’ office for way too long. And he’s still not here. Oh meet in his office he said, it’s important he said, it’s about you being an antagonistic shithead he said, he’ll be right here he said. He said that hours ago. Was this your punishment. It’s not like you even did anything substantial this time. Plus you were good at your job. No one took a hit quite like you and then lived to tell the tale. Not that you were supposed to be telling tales. You are a covert agent, remember.

Your commander walked in slowly, holding a cup of coffee in one hand, a tablet in the other. Reyes sat at this desk. Put the coffee down. Tapped some things on the tablet. Then sighed. Deeply.

“I would like to go one day. Without punishing you. One day.” Reyes folded his hands and leaned forward, staring at you passively. “Can I have that, Agent. Can you, for one day, for once in your life. Not fuck up.”

Oh he was, very angry. Much angrier than you expected.

“It was a joke, sir.”

“You made a recruit break his arm.”

“He was a bad recruit, sir.”

Reyes groaned, rubbing his face. “I’m beginning to think I should have let Morrison take you. Between you and McCree I’m hoping a stroke comes.”

“In my defense, all I did was tell the recruit he had a spider on his back. It’s on him that he believed me, and then fell off the balcony. It was a short drop too. Just barely enough for a fracture. He’s fine. Besides, you’re overexaggerating. You like McCree’s behavior in the field.” You shake your head at his dramatics.

“What do I like about you then, hm? Because anybody could carelessly walk through a gunfight.” He grumbled. You stood up, leaning forward until there was just inches between your faces. You grinned like you knew there wouldn’t be any consequences for one broken arm. Just like there weren’t any consequences for swapping out Morrison’s coffee can for one of those snakes-in-a-can toys. Just like there weren’t any consequences for duct taping all of Lindholm’s gear to the ceiling. Just like there weren’t any consequences for filling one of McCree’s hats with very well buttered mashed potatoes. You were a troublemaker and a prankster and a big ass liar. But you were a good agent. Useful.

“You like being able to send me on suicide missions that you know I’ll come back from. You like that I walk a very, very thin line between being good and being bad. You like…” You paused, your lips close enough to his that you could feel when he began to hold his breath. Then you chuckled and stole his coffee. You sat back down in your chair with a wild grin on your face, taking a pleased sip.

“You’re an asshole.” Reyes glared before smirking. “We can both be assholes you know. Speaking of McCree, he does have a mission coming up. I’m sure he’d like some backup-”

“Please no.”

“And your schedule is clear.”

“Babe. I’m sorry.”

“I’m so happy that you’re volunteering for this mission.”

“Gabriel he shoots through me. Just cause it heals fast doesn’t mean that shit doesn’t hurt have you seen his bullets.”

“Especially since you’re doing it to make up for breaking that recruits arm.”

“Oh my fuck I’ll kiss you c'mon.”

Reyes was smirking as he pushed the tablet across the desk. “Your debriefing.”

You groaned, falling back in your chair. Reyes took the cup from your hands and downed it with one confident smile. The bastard. Honestly, it’s what you get for fucking with him to begin with. Not, the relationship just, messing with him You. You do not regret the relationship.

You sigh and get up to circle around the desk. Reyes rolls his eyes and stays still as you wiggle under one of his arms to curl up on his lap. “I’m going to need. A lot of attention. After being shot multiple times by my own teammate. Actually, I’ll take some now. Before he shoots me.”

Reyes smiled and leaned down, pressing his lips against yours. He was warm and soft and you could taste the coffee on his lips. The man used a lot of creamer. He might also put straight up caramel into his coffee. It was delicious. Sweet as hell, but delicious.

“You’ll come back to me, Agent. Or else.”

“You’ll never be rid of me.”


	9. No Need to Fear (Gabriel "Reaper" Reyes x Reader)

It took you days to prepare for New Year’s. Not on, getting decorations, or picking snacks, or even buying some drinks. No it was more like, putting up soundproofing, getting some sound canceling headphones, and making excuses for avoiding the party. You had a secret that was pretty embarrassing for someone who routinely killed people for a living. Stabbed ‘em. Poisoned 'em. Shoved 'em in front of cars. Whatever was most convenient really.

It would ruin your reputation if a single member of Talon knew you were afraid of fireworks.

It would ruin your reputation if anyone knew about it really. Who was going to hire an assassin that was afraid of fireworks. You’ve planted explosives before. People have paid you to plant explosives before. But it’s not, the same. You don’t have to hear them go off. The whistling. The booming. It’s. It’s just not. Not okay.

But you would rather die than admit that to the one doctor you had regular access to. Getting over your fears did not require genetic manipulation thank you.

There was a knocking at your door that you really hoped wasn’t her lurking outside. You’re not even sure you worked for her. Weren’t you technically working for Reaper? Or were you working for Doomfist. One of the two it didn’t matter. You were told to go stab someone so you did. It didn’t need to be fucking complicated. Especially since the council had such a high likelihood of dying again anyway.

You opened the door to Reaper, which you’re pretty sure answers your question. You liked him better anyway. There was something, more trustworthy about him. If something happened you knew he would have your back. That’s the type of leader that people want to follow. Though if you ever said that aloud you’d probably end up dead by morning. Something something causing disorder in the ranks. Apparently 'conflict being great’ didn’t extend to the upper circle.

“I’ve been calling you all day.” Reaper remarked in a low growl.

“Oh? I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with… renovation projects.” You nervously run a hand through your hair. “What can I do for you? I’m not going to any parties and even if I were you know me. Can’t pass up the opportunity to.. stab… a.. yeah sorry.”

There was an awkward moment of silence, with Reaper staring at you and you staring at the ground. You’re waiting for him to give you an order and now you’re wishing that you had kept your phone on you while you hastily put up soundproofing. You hoped that it was an upcoming mission. And not one that he did, came back, and then came to yell at you for not being there.

“I was, going to ask if you wanted to come to the party with me.” Reaper said slowly. “Can I ask why you weren’t going to go?”

You looked up at him with a start. He was going to ask… like… a date? Oh. You didn’t think he was the type to date. All work no play sorta guy. You answered without thinking, forgetting that you really didn’t want this information to get out.

“I’m afraid of fireworks.” Your hand flew to your mouth and you squeaked. Squeaked. You’re a fucking assassin and you just squeaked you oversized novelty pez dispenser.

“You’ve been soundproofing. I would have had this done for you.” Reaper remarked, looking past you at the walls. “I see. You can’t handle the sound, right? Do you want to still see them?”

You tilted your head, curious. When he held out his hand you took it, letting him lead you out of the agent dormitories towards the council suites. They were large, luxurious apartments, built overlooking the shore. Reaper’s was clean, his furniture unsurprisingly black but his walls were a softer grey with colorful paintings hanging off of them. The far wall was a floor to ceiling window that made your skin crawl. Reaper let go of your hand to motion towards the couch.

“Sit. Do you want a soda? Or tea.” He asked, slipping into the kitchen.

“Anything. No wine?” You joke, nervously sitting on the cool leather cushion. How long did you have before those things started going off?

“It won’t help if you get drunk.” Reaper sat next to you, handing you a warm cup of tea. Vanilla maybe? You rarely had it enough to tell the difference between various kinds. Leaf water was leaf water, wasn’t it? Tasted good. Reaper surprised you when he slipped off his clawed gloves, tilting his mask up just enough to sip his tea through a straw. You supposed a face reveal would be too much for a first date. If this was a date.

The two of you sipped your tea in silence. But it wasn’t, uncomfortable. You experimentally leaned on Reaper, pleased when he shifted to slide his arm around you and pull you closer.

You were drifting off to sleep when the first colorful lights glittered through the window. You jumped, dropping your mug on the ground. At least you already finished your tea. Reaper gave your shoulders a squeeze, putting down his cup to rest his hands over yours.

“The apartment is soundproof. It’s okay.” He watched you as you watched the explosions shimmer in the air. They were beautiful. Perhaps still a bit terrifying. But beautiful. You hadn’t been able to watch live fireworks in years. Actually you’re not sure you were ever able to watch live fireworks. You couldn’t remember when the fear started to develop. But it didn’t quite matter. You were, okay. You felt safe. Reaper had your back.

“Didn’t think you were this gentle.” You murmured as the last light faded from the sky.

“If you tell anyone I’ll kill you.” Reaper threatened. But his voice was, warmer than usual. He was joking. You grinned and rested your chin on his shoulder.

“I was about to tell you the same thing about the fireworks issue.”

“Don’t worry about it. No one will ever use it against you.” He let go of your hands to brush your face. You smiled and kissed his mask on the cheek.

“My hero.”


	10. Cupcake (Gabriel "Reaper" Reyes x Reader)

At first, Reaper was pretty sure Moira was messing with the council. You were the least threatening thing he’d ever seen. You didn’t look like you could lift a jug of milk, forget kill someone. It didn’t help that you brought a container of homemade mini-cheesecakes with you to a major meeting of a fucking terrorist organization. Who did that. You did, apparently.

You also knit everyone sweaters. Hats. Gloves. Scarves. Quilted everyone blankets. Celebrated everyone’s birthdays, every holiday, every occasion. Left little gifts of favored snacks and drinks where someone would find them. Memorized habits, hobbies. Took note of emotional states and looked after people you thought were upset, or in a bad mood. It was possible, that Moira brought you in for your observational skills. But that couldn’t quite be it.

It had to be a joke.

Doomfist sent you on a mission and everyone assumed you wouldn’t be coming back. You were so weak. So soft. You were made of kindness and gentleness and the sort of friendly love that the entire organization balked at.

Then you came back. Smiling. You held more than what Doomfist sent you to steal. You gifted him with a treasure trove of stolen technology, documents, money. Then you gifted him with a strawberry shortcake you made on your way in. Questions came up. Who were you. How did Moira find you. Why were you willing to work for Talon. And how much food network did you watch someone just watched you peacefully make handmade filo dough and now everyone has questions.

You made Reaper uncomfortable. You were an unknown. A chaotic element introduced into an already unstable situation. It didn’t help that you seemed to be so fond of everyone. That you were there at his side with a smile and some caramels.

Candy. You even fucking made candy.

Reaper got his answer when he finally got you on a mission with him. You were the least stealthy thing he’d ever seen. You weren’t even trying to sneak around. You walked confidently right up to the building, smiling at the guards.

“You two love me, don’t you? Let me in.”

Reaper was going to shoot you himself when the guards swung the doors open. You continued every step of the way, assuring each and every person that you came across that they Loved You. And they did. They fell over themselves trying to give you anything you wanted. The weapons Reaper had brought you in to help steal where given to you almost immediately. The smile that you gave as you handed them over to Reaper sent chills down his spine.

The cops that had been waiting outside would have been a welcome reprieve, if not for you, still smiling.

“You love me. Kill them.” You pointed the cops towards each other. A chaotic firefight broke out between them, the civilians following you falling to stray shots. The two of you easily slipped away, disappearing towards Talon’s plane.

“… You haven’t done that to us.” Reaper accused, wary of you. Of your abilities, and your intentions.

“No. I like you. I never do that to people I care about. I might do it to Doomfist though if he’s not careful.” You smile. “You’re very prickly sometimes. But I like it when you’re prickly.”

“We’re the wrong people to care about,” Reaper said softly. He just saw you force people to kill each other and yet. He thought about the caramels on his desk and the warm blanket folded outside of his room. You were a monster. But…

“That’s unfortunate. I’ve picked you.” You brighten and produce a small container of cupcakes from your bags. Of course you were carrying cupcakes. You didn’t need equipment.

“I like your skills, and how tactical you are, and how you look after the people who work for you.” You smile, offering him the open container. “You have a nice voice too.”

“I… are you flirting with me.” Reaper takes a cupcake without meaning to.

“Was I?” You look surprised and take a cupcake too. “Oh, but you are my favorite. I guess I was. Let me try again? I’m an excellent flirt.”

Reaper said nothing, tilting his mask up enough to take a bite of his dessert. It’s amazing, as always.

“Um… Ah! Do you want me to be your cupcake?”

He paused mid-chew, tilting his head at you. That was awful. Not the worst he’d ever heard. But awful.

“Was that not excellent flirting.”

Reaper didn’t say anything. You knew it wasn’t. He knew you knew.

You leaned up to put your head on his shoulder, staring at his mask. “Care to join me in my room, and I can show you how sweet I really am?”

The cupcake felt unsettlingly dry as Reaper tried to swallow it down. You were terrifying. And attractive. Terrifyingly attractive. And he liked you. It was bad for his plans, bad for himself, bad for everyone but you, he suspected.

“Alright, alright. I’m a bad flirt.” You sighed and bit your cake. Reaper glanced at the frosting on your lip and made a horrible decision. He leaned over you, licking the frosting off before kissing you. You tasted unnaturally sweet. Of course you did. Reaper was either gaining a deadly powerful ally or assuring his own destruction.

“You’re not that bad, Cupcake.”


	11. Blood and Bone (Gabriel "Reaper" Reyes x Reader)

Blood and Bone. Cascading. Breaking.

It’s hard to remember a time when this wasn’t normal. A time when this wasn’t the way things were. When you try to think back it’s vague and nebulous. It’s a series of ideas pieced together and you aren’t entirely sure what’s real and what is just hopeful guesswork influenced by television and society. Perhaps it’s always been this way. Perhaps you’ve always been surrounded by gore. Perhaps you’ve always been graced with a veil of blood.

It’s a simple job. Someone brings you an individual who has valuable information. You get that information.

They say that torture doesn’t actually provide information. That people will say what they think is wanted in order to get the pain to stop. You’re inclined to agree. But you’re also inclined to think your employers don’t actually care what ‘information’ you do or do not get. You’re a punishment, a threat. Obey, or pay a visit to the butcher. There’s not a face within Talon that you don’t know. Your free time is spent tracking social circles, memorizing schedules, identifying patterns. You have names, times, locations.

Your smile makes people shudder. You wish it didn’t.

The only one that doesn’t cringe around you is the man in black. The man with the owl mask. The man who calls himself Reaper and skulks around dealing death in the dark. You rarely meet. He doesn’t need you to frighten the people he wants scared; he does that quite well on his own. Most of Talon does but when you employ thousands of dangerous people it’s a good idea to keep them in line. Fear works as well as adoration. And they fear you. You fear yourself too. You aren’t sure you can slip back out of the role you’ve settled into so comfortably. Afraid that the carefully labeled photo albums on your shelf are handled too carefully, handled too often. You see a monster in the mirror.

Reaper doesn’t seem to see what you see. When he first approaches you, a real greeting instead of silently dwelling in the same room as you, he gives off the vibe of someone approaching a wounded animal. His hand is extended slightly out. His palm is up. His steps are slow and measured. He murmurs your name and asks if you would accompany him on a routine scouting mission. He wants your ability to read people. You are good at it. You’re so good at it. He does not touch you on this mission. He is close enough to show he is comfortable with you but far enough that you could reach your arms out in any direction and not touch him. You’re wary and you don’t know why. He’s wary and you do know why.

The second time he approaches you he does so casually. He greets you, stands next to you, offers you a cool soda. You’re confused and defensive but he doesn’t step back this time. Reaper sits still, alone with you in your workplace, surrounded by sterile white and the smell of bleach so ever-present that you have long forgotten it was even there. You have one of your books open and are pasting new pictures in, writing new notes. He sees you doing this and doesn’t leave. Reaper doesn’t fear you. This comforts you more than he could ever know.

Soon it’s not just Reaper in your room but Sombra. You never crossed her path before but you walk into your workspace to find her on a laptop in the corner. She gives you a tired hey and points to a bag of muffins without looking up. She claims no one would bother her in there and she’s right. But no one would bother her in her office either. Reaper appears with a tablet and they’re both working in the room where you make nightmares happen.

It seems so strange. No. It seems so normal. Such a normal thing to do in such an abnormal place. You don’t understand but you can’t bring yourself to say anything about it. You want them there. Want them at your side. They are your greatest comfort. Your only comfort.

Rumors circulate Talon. Everyone knows the council is not united. And now people wonder what part of the council controls you. It’s ridiculous, you think. You work for the council regardless of who sits on it. That’s how Talon stays together, that’s how Talon avoids schisms. You work for no one and will kill anyone. But that’s a lie and you know it.

Reaper begins to direct you out of your workplace. He sends you alone on scouting missions. Then assassinations. Then thefts. You work and your role in Talon begins to blur. The tortures stop. You don’t have the time for it. Instead, you kill, quick and as painless as you can. You are still terrible but you begin to see a little less of the monster. Not by much. But enough.

You notice when Reaper begins to touch you. Your shoulders, your hands, your arms. It’s casual and most of the time he doesn’t seem to be noticing he’s doing it. You start to consider Reaper a friend. Sombra too. When she asks you to keep an eye on Widowmaker, keep her safe. You do. New patterns appear and a new binder is filled. The role of protector presents itself to you and you aren’t sure what to think of it. It’s so strange. So different. It suits you.

You arm yourself. It’s not hard if you follow the right patterns. Make the right threats. Make the right promises. You get traps that draw in enemy fire. Hard light shields that conform to your body like a glove. Knives. So many knives.

Reaper notices when you touch him back. A hand on his back, his shoulder, his hand. He turns his hand so your palms rest together and you weave your fingers through his. Neither of you talks about it for a long time. You’re too busy pulling yourself out of the murk you had let yourself sink into. He was too busy putting his plans into place. You stay close to each other though, the touches placeholders and promises, to hold the two of you steady until your ship reaches port.

When you announce a new name, Sombra grins at you. You’ve come to learn that she cares so much about her little group. So much. Reaper seems less expressive until he joins you in your room, your new name whispered across the skin of your neck in a quiet reverence. What do you see in him, he asks you. And you laugh, you laugh until you cry, you laugh until you’re huddled in his arms in the darkness of your bedroom. How did you see me through what I became, you ask him, and then you both go silent.

You are a feared creature in an organization of feared creatures. The only one that doesn’t cringe around you is a man in black. He greets you with a lingering hand trailing across your back, a tap of his mask against the side of your head, a quiet chuckle.

Being a monster is easier when you aren’t a monster alone.


	12. The Stars were Falling (Gabriel "Reaper" Reyes x Reader)

Reyes remembered when he first met you. It was night, and he was leading his team on a mission to dismantle a small but lucrative smuggling ring. They made it into a warehouse and there you were, standing in the middle of the room with the skylight open and the moonlight filtering upon your head. You were brightly illuminated and there was still a darkness that clung to you. The smugglers were dead. His team found them scattered through the building, caught in traps, each one more complex than the next. Some bloody, some brutal, most of them brilliant.

Reyes asked if you were the one who took them out.

You laughed like the stars were falling and you were the one who knocked them out of the sky.

He took you with them. Learned your skills for trapping and hunting, how you applied them to your career. The smugglers had apparently killed someone’s father. That someone asked you to return the favor. The weighted trap wasn’t the only one in your playbook. You had been stalking these smugglers for weeks. It made sense. Blackwatch only moved because they thought the smugglers were about to run. Now they knew why.

Most of the base called you Snare. You seemed to like it. There was a playfulness to you. Pranks soon became throughout Blackwatch’s quarters. Nothing was safe but you were never cruel in your jokes. Your cruelty only came into play when you were set out into the field. Sometimes you went far. Very far. You were all too eager to introduce your targets to your rage. Even the ones you brought in for questioning. You rarely listened to orders, every return debriefing was filled with threats of being benched that both of you knew would never happen. You were a hassle, a mess. Chaotic and Undisciplined.

But you were good. You were very good.

Despite your fragrant lack of respect for rules or order you took to Blackwatch like a fish in water. You thrived, you flourished. You loved it. You always gave him the impression that you just weren’t happy in your life before. That you were just, existing for the sake of it. It was blackwatch that gave you purpose, direction, a home. You would do anything for Blackwatch, anything for Overwatch. Your loyalty was without question.

Reyes remembered when he first fell in love with you. It was night, and you were standing in front of a window. The moonlight framed you in its glow and the shadow covered your face. You were relaxed. Staring at him. He asked you what you were thinking and you laughed again.

“What do you call a bad person doing good things?”

You weren’t a bad person. An angry person? Yes. A person out of control? Certainly. But bad? Reyes couldn’t look at you and see bad. You never hurt an innocent civilian. You never left someone behind. Most of the negative marks on your record were because you didn’t come back immediately. You stayed behind. You found the people who needed you and you solved their problems. You solved it with violence and yet, they were still grateful. Reyes saw you like he saw himself. Willing to do what had to be done if it meant saving lives.

You laughed and told him you might believe him someday. That you would put some effort into seeing what he saw. And you did. You rarely made promises like that, rarely agreed to anything at all that wasn’t a mission. But when you did you meant it with your whole being. It was one of the things that made it so hard for him to get you out of his head.

Reyes didn’t get the chance to tell you how he felt. That he loved you so much it made his teeth hurt. You were on a rare team mission, heading out with McCree to handle a problem. There was an explosion, and McCree barely remembered what happened. He remembered the pain. That you told him he had lost his arm. That you stabilized him. That you heard someone in the building and ran back in. That it collapsed in flame and ash. That you didn’t come back out.

Reyes became Reaper and Reaper became focused on the task at hand. On moving up through Talon’s ranks, on preparing himself for what was to come. When Doomfist announced he’d hired a promising new candidate, a new assassin, Reaper braced for the newest problem he’d have to deal with. And then you walked in, covered in scars, one of your legs replaced with a new prosthetic. Reaper couldn’t help but smile under his mask.

He found you later, almost stepped into a trap you were setting up. You held the switch in your hand. You weren’t smiling. There was a serious look that didn’t belong on your face. But… it wasn’t anger. It was calm. It was patient. Like time had drained all that wrath out of you and left behind the calculations and traplines.

“What do you call a bad person doing good things?” He asked, softly, not bothering to move from where your trap was set. You looked at him and set the trap switch down.

Then you laughed. You laughed like the stars were falling, and you were there to pick them up again.


	13. One Night Stands (Jesse McCree x Reader)

You had a problem.

Well, you had several problems. The first problem is your habit of separating your mind from your body for some astral projection hijinks, which sounds really cool and awesome except you don’t always do it on purpose and if your body falls down in the whole foods one more god damn time you’re probably going to get banned and you’re not going 20 minutes to get to another fucking grocery store. Gas is expensive, and god damn do you love their dried mango slices. It’s basically concentrated sugar with some mango flavor in there. You’d gladly die for real than lose access to your mangos.

More important at the moment, is your favorite problem. You’ve been having several one-night-stands with the same guy and being that it’s been about 3 months now and you’ve slept with him more times than you’ve slept in the Fucking Whole Foods he’s less of a one night stand and more of a… Eehhhhhhhh.

He’s pretty great. Clever. Funny. Kind. Got that whole cowboy aesthetic thing going on. It’s hot. But you’re also pretty sure he’s a criminal. You’ve never exchanged names, opting for a variety of pet names or playful insults, but he looks like he’s Jesse McCree. The man carries around a very large, very old fashioned looking pistol. Which is a clue. And then he wears this, obnoxious belt buckle that you’ve seen on enough wanted posters to know that it’s he’s gotta be McCree. So you’re fucking a wanted man on a regular basis. That’s fine. That happens. People do that. So what?

The thing is he’s really great. And you really like him. But clearly you can’t say anything because he’s probably traveling the world and you can’t keep your soul or mind or whatever in your body long enough to do a load of laundry. So you’re really pissed. Mostly at yourself. It’s not his fault Asshole McAstralFuck is getting romantic feelings for him. He didn’t purchase a ticket on the emotion train. You’re just, really not sure how to deal with this.

At the current moment, the only way to deal with it is to cirque du soliel your way out of his arms so you can get dressed and get out before he wakes up and skyrockets the risk of… conversations.

You wiggle slightly to loosen his grip. There’s a sigh in your ear and his arms gently squeeze you.

“Stop that.” His voice is fuzzy with sleep. His nuzzles at the back of your neck, burying his face in your hair. You sigh and wait a few minutes before trying again and he mutters something against your skin.

“What?”

“I said, you’re soft and warm and I don’t want you to move, darlin’.” His head tilts just enough to kiss you on the cheek before he lays back down.

Fuck you sideways and call you a cornstalk that was the cutest thing you’ve ever heard. You weren’t looking for tingling heartsick feelings you were looking to avoid relationship questions by climbing down the balcony. Like an adult.

“Next time we should meet in your apartment. I’d like to cook you breakfast.”

You give up on your failed wiggle techniques and relax into his arms. “Why?”

“Aint that what boyfriends do?”

Your face lights on fire. Motherfucker this man is going to be the death of you.


	14. Meditation in the Movement (Jesse McCree x Reader)

There was something therapeutic in dancing. You loved it, found peace and sanctuary in the beat. Feeling the song move through your body like your own pulse, shifting and twisting with the melody. The vibrations against your skin driving you forward and back. Side to side. All the anger, all the fear, all the pain that drove you deeper and deeper into the ground. It fell away. With every movement, every shift of your hips. You were free.

It was your favorite thing in the world. But you could never bring yourself to dance in front of others. You didn’t like being watched to begin with. You were a spy, you weren’t supposed to be seen. You snuck in, got information, snuck back out. Like a ghost. a mist. Being seen gave you shivers. A tingling that curled up your spine and made your skin crawl. You liked lurking, hiding in the shadows and then speaking up during meetings and watching everyone jump. Well, not everyone. You rarely made McCree jump. He always seemed to be sitting in the one seat that had a clear view of whatever shadowy corner you had chosen to wedge yourself in. You suppose that was a weird habit, but Winston had yet to tell you anything about it. So it should be just fine.

Generally you waited until everyone was off base. Or asleep. Late at night, when the only people who were awake were the insomniac tinkerers. Good luck trying to pry them out of their workshops. It didn’t even matter which one, bothering any of them could result in loss of limb or something exploding in your face. That’s just what happened. You wish you could say the same about your room.

It was well past midnight. You turned up your music just loud enough for you to enjoy it without waking up the others in your hall. And you danced. Twisted your body to the music, let it put you at rest. Set you at ease. You felt so much better. So much happier. Until you turned, and saw McCree hovering in your doorway lacking the smirk you normally saw on his face. His eyes were warm but his lips were set in a line. Thoughtful. You wanted to die.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. Heard the music and the door wasn’t locked.” McCree broke the awkward silence. You gazed at him blankly for a few horrifying seconds before running to turn off the music.

“Ya don’t have to stop. I can go.” McCree put up his hands, though he didn’t walk away.

“I didn’t realize anyone else was awake.” You muttered. 

“I just got back from a mission. It was, tirin’. Wanted to see you before I went to sleep.” He spoke slow and soft, but didn’t look away from you. Now you knew the look on his face. He was so tired. You hesitantly stepped up to him, tilting your head.

“You okay McCree?” You sort of thought he should be seeing Mercy, not you. But he just nodded and closed the gap between you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders.

“Seein’ you always makes it better.” McCree released you, brushing his hand along your cheek before he nodded. “Good night, darlin’.”

You waited a few minutes after he left before turning your music back on. He just gave you a lot to think about. You needed to work it out.


	15. Holy Somethin' Somethin' (Jesse McCree x Reader)

Regardless of your religious preferences you always seem to end up at a small Catholic Church when you’re in Dorado. It’s not that you find peace there or that you like it. It’s that they can’t kick you out and have to give you food. At least, this one can’t. Favors for favors, debts owed by old friends, whispers in the underground. The priest does not like you. It’s mutual.

You’re in there now, lounging in the back pews, listening to the sounds beyond the front door. Listening for particular sounds. Heavy boots, clinking gear, the sound of a clip being loaded. So far the coast is clear. If it stood this good till morning you could leave the city clean and clear. But things generally didn’t work out for you so well. It wasn’t that you were unlucky, but damn if things didn’t just happen. You could only account for so many factors. There was always something that was going to go wrong.

Like the sound of jingling rapidly coming down the street. You sighed, twirling a pencil in your fingers. It was late and you really didn’t have permission to open the doors. But you also couldn’t get kicked out. So you did it. A man was jogging down the street, dressed for some reason like an old cowboy, pistol visible in his hand. You sighed. As much as you could get away with, letting the church get shot up probably wouldn’t make your next visit very pleasant. Just because the priest couldn’t make you leave didn’t mean he wouldn’t give you a shitty blanket and a bowl of water with some saltines floating in it.

You stepped out, closing the doors behind you, looking for all the world like a sad lonely sap coming out of a late night confession. You clutched the pencil between your hands like it was a saint’s token. Kept your head down. Your eyes fluttering between open and closed. You headed straight towards him, humming a nonsense melody.

“Careful darlin’.” The man held out his arm, a prosthetic that was interesting, and looked back over his shoulder. “Bad guys, that a way.”

“People still say that?” You couldn’t help yourself. It was weird. The way he looked at you didn’t seem to help. You smiled and weaved past him.

“I’ll be fine. Holy something something.” You waved over your shoulder. You could hear his jingling after you. Spurs? Was he wearing spurs? What, who, why. Why would he. Where was the nearest horse. You haven’t even seen a horse in person before. Was he spurring people? Kinky.

The man pulled you into the shadows, trying to draw you behind him. You planted your feet, resisting him long enough to see a few men turn the corner. You recognized their dress well enough. A small arms dealing operation, masquerading as a tupperware company. You had to give them credit, no one was going to see that coming. Who’s looking for assault rifles mixed in with their plastic storage boxes?

They saw you. Of course they did. You wear standing next to a fucking cowboy that some time traveler had left behind in their quest to fuck their way through history. You bolted forward, slamming the pencil into the first one’s eye, taking a bit of satisfaction in the feeling of the wood smashing against the other side of the skull.

It was pretty impressive that you were still allowed in any church if you’re being perfectly honest.

You grabbed another man’s arm and snapped it, ensnaring him in a bear hug that cracked ribs. You were aiming for the spine but one of his friends tried prying you off. You slammed that man’s head into the concrete, wincing at the splatter. Sometimes you forgot how strong you were. Whoops. Your bad. Shots run out as the rest of the men dropped. They were too distracted by you to pay attention to the gunman taking aim. Rookie mistakes. Even you could get taken down by bullets.

“Holy somethin’ somethin’ is right. Don’t suppose you could use that strength for somethin’ good?” The cowboy put his pistol away, leaning over to pick up one of the corpses. Probably couldn’t leave them in the street. At least drag them around the corner. You picked up two of them, smirking at him.

“Maybe. Depends on what’s in it for me.”

He raised his eyebrows and made a show of thinking about it as you dumped bodies off the cliffside.

“Getting to work with all of this aint’ enough of a bonus?” He gestured to himself. You laughed, wiping blood off your hands and throwing your handkerchief off the cliffside too.

“Oh well when you put it that way.” You yanked on his serape, pulling closer to your face, your lips teasingly close. “Hmm. I guess you’re alright. It’s a deal.”

You let him go, stepping away with a smile. “So what’s the job, cowboy?”

“Name’s McCree. You ever hear of a thing called Overwatch?”


	16. Million Ways (Jesse McCree x Reader)

There are a million ways to tell someone you care for them. Words. A touch of the hand. A smile. It’s, really easy to miss some of them. To not notice their gaze from across the room. How warm it is. How soft. To not recognize the frequentness of touches, gentle like your skin is made of glass. It is so painfully easy to see someone’s love as simple friendship. There are a million ways to tell someone you care for them and a million more ways to not receive the message.

You used to be so shy. Kept your head down and your mind on your own business. You never noticed your coworkers, not beyond what you needed for missions. You assumed no one noticed you. That was your job. You were a spy, meant to gather information the old fashioned way. People didn’t notice your presence in rooms. You had a gift for gauging people and determining exactly what you needed to do to keep them from realizing you were there. Perhaps it was a gift, perhaps it was just anxiety, either way it served Blackwatch well.

It never occurred to you that Agent McCree knew exactly who you were.

You knew him. Spoke with him on occassion. Worked with him a few times. They were simple missions, undercover, and for the most part he did his job well. A few times he, might have put a little too much effort into his accents and personas. But you were still grateful for his presence. Anything that drew eyes off of you was a good thing. He seemed perfectly willing to keep focus on himself. You didn’t think he knew you. Didn’t think he had your name memorized. That he requested those missions with you, requested positions where he was in more danger than you were. Why would he?

The thought never crossed your mind and so you never noticed him, noticing you.

Even when it all went up in smoke and ash, and you were forced to run and hide and change yourself to survive. You had always considered yourself alone and thus only considered your own safety when crawling out of the aftermath. Of course you didn’t have to worry about who was looking for you, who missed you, who was afraid you were dead. The answer was clearly no one. You were wrong. It wasn’t the first time you were wrong and it won’t be the last. You didn’t realize it for a long time. You just went forward. You changed because you had to. Changed because change presented itself as an opportunity. Used your training and experience and added a lethal edge to it. Grew confident and distances yourself from others at every given instance.

You didn’t intend to return to Overwatch. You were never one of them. Before you were just part of Blackwatch and that’s how it was. Now, you, with all of your new experiences and ideas, thought Overwatch was too gentle, too lenient. The most efficient way to solve a problem was with a blade or a well timed bullet. But you didn’t think anyone else would go. So you went. You were wrong about that too.

Jesse McCree looked at you like you were a ghost. A phantasm. Something he dreamt up in the middle of the night. He walked up to you and reached out to touch your arm, hesitant. Uncertain.

“Is that you, darlin’?”

Yes and no. Of course and not at all. You smiled and greeted him and noticed how the shock blew out the color in his skin. Noticed how it came rushing back when you spoke. It was strange. Confusing. How did he even recognize you? You weren’t anyone, you were just, a background figure. So unremarkable and uninteresting that your entire job was based on it.

“Do I really look so similar?” You asked, the two of you alone in the mess hall, two cups of coffee and a plate of french fries set between you.

“I would recognize you anywhere.” McCree smiled. “I think it’s your eyes. They’re always so sharp.”

“I have sharp eyes?”

“They’re lovely.”

You stop the conversation at that, letting the silence fill the gaps between french fries and stale caffeine. Memories suddenly have new context and you curse yourself in your thoughlessness. You are different, so different, night and day with such a distance in between you’re not even minted on the same coin. You mutter this, bitter and angry, again so ignorant to being watched. And he laughs, and picks you up, and spins you.

“You’re still you.” He slows down, holding you close, expression serious and calm. “You’re still you. Don’t you worry about a few years darlin’. This world aint strong enough to take you on.”

You are the best and disappearing into crowds, and Jesse McCree is the best at pulling you out again. He is the one who notices you when you’ve lost track of who you’ve become. You are the one who rests in the background behind him, ready to clean up whatever trouble he gets into. You balance each other.

There are a million ways to show someone you care. You’re lucky to get a second chance to learn them all.


	17. My Lips are Sealed (Jesse McCree x Reader)

You always showered late at night, as late as you could without ruining your sleep. The communal showers were one of the very few downsides to working for Overwatch. You liked to shower alone and you certainly liked to shower without the knowledge that there was someone else naked in the room you were in. So you waited until you found the mythical hour. No one as far as the eye could see. The busy hallways were at their quietest. There was no one there but you, the water, and the sweet acoustics.

You would die, or kill, before anyone found out you sung in the shower. You certainly didn’t consider bringing knives with you to handle witnesses. Unfortunately the damn job was worth not murdering your coworkers. Maybe you could get some sort of tranquilizer darts or something. So far you didn’t need it. You enjoyed your late night showers, singing whatever came to mind. It was such a silly way to relax but you enjoyed it so much. At least, you did until someone started singing with you.

The voice wasn’t recognizable. It was a man’s voice, about your age, rich and warm. The sort of voice you would remember but you don’t. He’s skilled and follows the tune, humming along even when he doesn’t seem to know the words. Sometimes you hear the water shut off and there’s a lingering moment when the bathroom door doesn’t open or close and you wonder if he’s waiting to talk with you.

But then he leaves and you’re left to comfortably dress yourself and disappear before anyone has a chance to come back. You don’t know who he is. And he probably doesn’t know who you are. It’s… not ideal. But you can accept it. You work with Overwatch, you’ve dealt with worse.

You just keep going. You have a ladder to climb afterall. A ladder that landed you in an office with Commander Morrison and Commander Reyes and a file in front of you with a red, black, and white logo that you haven’t seen before. A transfer. Just on a trial, they would see how it went before assigning you permanently. You weren’t sure about it but you couldn’t say no. A stealth division wouldn’t exactly rocket your name onto anyone’s promotion list.

It felt strange, not wearing that familiar blue uniform. Being outfitted in something more custom, dark black and grey, felt. Final. Like this wasn’t a trial basis at all but… home. Your first mission and you found yourself agreeing with your commanders in a way you didn’t think you would. This fit you. The silence, the subtlety, the stealth. The moving in and out without a single person ever knowing you even existed. You felt free. This wouldn’t get you any public medal ceremonies but… well it was certainly rewarding in its own way.

The hardest part was, confusingly, your own private bathroom. Showering alone was a huge relief and yet… There was a part of you that missed your old singing partner. A part of you that regretted never sticking your head out of the stall and introducing yourself. You could have just shouted a hello over the wall. Asked him his name. Gave him yours. But you didn’t, and now you would never have the chance. Whoever he was that ship had sailed.

It didn’t take long for you to work your way to Blackwatch’s top. You settled into the briefing room, ignoring the curious looks you were getting from one of the other agents. A man in a… cowboy hat. You suppose it was more stealth oriented than the man who was literally glowing.

“Good, you’re all here. I assume you had time to get to know each other.” Reyes strolled in, one arm full of files, the other holding a large mug.

“You’re the first person in this room to say a word, sir.” You notice the cowboy perk up out of the corner of your eye. Went back to ignoring him when the commander put images on the screen. Your job, your quarry. Nothing but you and the quiet night. And an inherent trust that the other two were also completing their jobs. Part of you wanted to question their competency but… if they were in this room with you, they had to be good. Right? Right. Focus.

The cowboy’s eyes didn’t leave you, not as you exited the briefing room, not as you boarded the jet, not as you endured a plane ride that would be much less aggravating were you not the subject of his attention. McCree, that’s what the commander called him. The other one was, Genji. Genji seemed to avoid staring at you just fine. He seemed like he would prefer literally any other company on earth to the two of you. You suppose you’d be angry too if you had that much metal on you. Couldn’t blame him anymore than you could swing your fist into McCree’s face. The staring didn’t stop until you were separated for your mission. A blissful respite. You had plenty of time to work out your frustrations with a string of bodies left behind you. Some of them were even still alive.

You relaxed as you took out your target, stepping towards the window and dropping. Just as the Commander ordered, Agent Shimada caught you halfway down and released you onto the sidewalk to complete your part of the exit strategy. Flawless. A clean entry and a clean exit. None of you deviated from the plan, not even that strange McCree.

He caught you as you walked away from the debriefing, casually dropping his arm over your shoulders. “Hey now. It’s been a while hasn’t it? Sure missed our little nightly duets.”

You froze midstep. That voice…

“You- If you tell a single person I’ll murder you.” You didn’t mean that. Your brain just picked the most coherent sentence it could generate under shock and apparently that was a threat for bodily harm. Not surprising.

McCree laughed, “Your secret’s safe with me. Don’t know why you’d keep it quiet though, you have a nice voice.”

He was staring at you again. But the familiarity smoothed the edges and you saw glimpses of warmth in his eyes. McCree was sort of attractive if you thought about it. And he did have a pretty good voice if memory served you right.

“If you keep it to yourself you can have a private performance.” You shrugged, pretending like you didn’t notice the way he smiled at the thought. “But I swear to God, you tell no one.”

“My lips are sealed.”


	18. Scrapped Fic (Jesse McCree x Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A large hunk of fic that got completely canceled after the Reunion video and Ashe's release.

It was hot. The sort of hot that you feel before the sun’s even up. It rises in a wave of sweat and apathy that comes to choke you with its hands, sticky from sweat.

The sun rose to blaze overhead so fiercely the heat danced above the street from five feet away. You could reach out and run your fingers through the mirage and pretend you could feel the cool water on your fingertips. The wind did nothing to help. It was barely there, only coming in to kick up more clouds of thick gritty dust to sink into your skin and hair. And then it was gone. Some folk say that you’re lucky enough to live in a place with dry eat. Wet heat would strangle the life out of you.

Like this place didn’t strangle the life out of you.

It strangled the life out of everyone in sight. Everybody wheezing for any sort of breath they could squeeze out of the sunbaked sky. There was a dog on the corner, so thin you could see his ribs, trying to squeeze itself into a shrinking sliver of shadow. Trying to find a moment of respite before it died like everything else in this place.

It was a miserable fucking day.

Not that miserable days were out of the usual for a little dying town on the edge of a highway being lost to time and decay. No one drove this way anymore. No one gave a fuck about places like this anymore. The only time they were ever brought up was in fuckin’ horror stories. The retold and reposted murmurings about forgotten gas stations ran by attendants who didn’t seem to really exist. The sort of places that you went when you weren’t bad enough to go to hell but you weren’t good enough to go anywhere else. An inescapable purgatory that you stumbled into. That’s all this town was. A purgatory where the sun beat down on you until it finally put you down into the ground.

There weren’t many opportunities to leave places like this either. If you were born there you stayed there until the good merciful lord death finally came to wrap his thin fingers around your fucking throat. An angel to squeeze until you didn’t have to see the same 40 year old billboard advertising a brand of toothpaste that had gone out of business 20 years ago. No one here could afford fancy brands, when they could afford anything at all. There was always theft but the stores stopped bothering to stock the good stuff anymore. The whole town had just… given up. That was fine though. You didn’t intend to be stealing anything anymore.

You had a good score. If you could get this done, you would finally be off the street. Get yourself an apartment. A good one. With running water and electricity and a fridge that worked. Or hell, maybe you would find a way to get out of this god damn dead town. You just had to prove yourself. Show that you were every bit as good as you said you were. Prove that you were everything they needed and more. The answer to their god damn prayers. Their business was getting messy. You would make the lines clear.

You waited for hours at the bus stop. Got their in the morning and lingered until the middle of the hottest fucking part of the day watching the people who bothered to step off the bus. There were more folk leaving than there were coming. No one wanted to come here. There was no reason to be in a place like this unless someone had the sort of business that needed to be done where no one would care that it was happening. Or if someone intended to stop that sort of business from happening. If someone intended to shove their nose where it didn’t fucking belong. If someone who had actually managed to claw their god damn way out of this fucking shothole only to come back to piss in it. Yeah. That was the reason why someone might be coming off of one of those rust covered buses. Someone with a hat pulled low over his eyes and his head tilted down so you couldn’t quite make out his face. Didn’t matter. That sort of detail wasn’t necessary. You saw him.

You didn’t need to know where he was going. He was going to go where you fucking wanted him to go. You adjusted your bag and pulled a duct taped phone out of your shirt pocket.

“Now. Chase me.” You ordered. These people wanted this guy’s blood pretty bad. Enough to take a chance with you and give you a few of their men to work with. You promised you would take him down, pull the debt he owed out of his fucking blood one way or another. You made good on your promises. This was going to end the way you wanted it to. There was no other choice.

There’s shouting, cursing, in a mixture of languages but the anger and bloodlust is clear. There’s a scream and someone takes off running, someone young and dirt covered and desperate. Someone clinging to their bag and shouting for help even though they know damn well no one’s going to. They’re shouting to a crowd of ears that’s had too much taken from them for too long. No one would move for this. It was just another lost soul. Just another victim. One person who was too old to be a child but not yet an adult scrambling through dirt and grime and fear wasn’t enough to make it through the walls the crowd had built up. So this person keeps running, trying to weave through the streets and alleyways, trying to lose the three men that were already taking aim and trying to shoot them down. It was a scene destined to end in tragedy. That person, all alone, would never make it to shelter. They were going to be brought down and buried in some shallow grave in the desert. A mercy really. Graves were expensive and everyone knew it.

But he didn’t let that sort of injustice stand did he? No, not anymore. Now he was a big deal. The big hero. A little big for his fucking britches. Better than dealing with the muck, better than everyone down in the dark. He did exactly what you thought he would do. He stepped in. Appeared at your side and fired off a few rounds into the people behind you like it was easy. They were dead but, it was a worthy trade off. An upgrade. Getting rid of the older models. Right?

No time to think about it. Morals are for people who know what the color green is or have had water that they didn’t find half buried in a collapsed house.

“Hey hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to run, you’re safe now.” His voice was soothing. Low. Gentle. One hand held out to stop you. You shook your head.

“No. It’s not okay, you’re wrong! They’re just going to keep chasing me. They want it back and I won’t!.” You gripped your bag tight. Started stepping away from him. You were tempted to cry but that seemed too much. Footsteps were coming close, more of them now. He just nodded, took your hand, and ran. Took you through streets he thought he knew but didn’t. There wasn’t a building there anymore it burned down. This alley is gone, replaced with boxes and trash cans that masked the sheet someone used to make themsleves a home. There were cars blocking this road that hadn’t worked in years, not since the only mechanic in town died. But he held your hand and ran right down the path that you laid for him. He forgot this place. You didn’t have that luxury.

“What is it they want so bad? What’d you take?” He shouted, shooting backwards with startling accuracy. There were more bodies than you thought there’d be. So many people were going down for this. But that… That was fine. That was worth it.

“Some weapons? I don’t know. I didn’t. I couldn’t leave them. I don’t… I don’t…” You looked at your bag like it was the source of the anxiety starting to pulse through you. It was in a way. You weren’t lying.

“There’s a cliff. We’ll throw it over. I’ll shoot it for good measure, if that’ll make you feel better.” He smiled, loosening his grip on your hand. You pulled a smiley face button off the bag before handing it to him as both of you ran down the narrow street towards the cliffside. He headed for a building as more men showed up behind you. Fast shots but everyone missed. For a moment he dragged you along with the bag, stumbling as there was suddenly so much less weight to it. You had let go. Let go and stepped back as he slid through the long empty doorway.

The explosion was big. Dust and dirt and debris and… blood. A scream. Was it his or yours? Didn’t matter. The building fell down around his head because he was fool enough to go in there. Just like you said he would. You dusted yourself off, admired your handiwork, and then headed confidently towards the group now holstering their weapons. There was laughter, shouts of congratulations, pats on your back and ruffling of your hair. You’d done it. You’d managed to get that bastard back for everything that happened since he betrayed them. The fucker got what he deserved. And you? You were the star of the show.

You were now the pride and joy of the Deadlock Gang.

You were the one that put Jesse McCree in his place.

—

There’s nothing better than a nice, cool glass of ice water in the middle of a hot day. Perhaps. Start with nice, cold, premium filtered water from some mountain in the middle of nowhere with added minerals. For ‘benefits’, or taste, or just the extra text on the bottle. Maybe make that ice a crystal clear sphere made from the same perfect water. Cold, crisp, delicious, on demand. Heaven help anyone that doesn’t get one of the bosses of Deadlock some damn water.

The others tended to prefer spirits. Fine barrel-aged whiskey. High quality artisanal tequila from small farms. Bourbon if they were feeling fancy. You weren’t much of a drinker. It was an option when the occasion called for it, you would never make someone drink alone if they preferred not to. Still, you preferred your water. You’d never tell them anything about the cost of their liquor if they never said anything about your imported water. As long as the money kept flowing everyone would get along just fine.

And you brought in the damn money.

You preferred to deal in smuggling. Not necessarily drugs or guns, generally those were more hassle than they were worth but if the money was right. You knew the best route for moving goods. The weakest checkpoints. The guards who had sick family members and be more than a little interested in taking a bribe. They got the money they needed, you got your goods through the checkpoint. It benefited everyone involved.

That sort of thinking had gotten you quite a few recruits to top it off. Skilled career criminals could be bribed with the promise of comfort and stability. Most thieves wouldn’t resist the allure of a steady income as opposed to the uncertainty of a score. It was even better to pull someone off the streets though. If they were good enough to get into the Deadlock gang, good enough to earn that safety and security well. Didn’t they owe you a damn favor. Or two. Or five. You knew the benefits of clawing your way into this business.

You hadn’t bothered to cash any of them in just yet. But there was something so satisfying in simply knowing how many people owed you. It made you feel secure in your position amongst the bosses. There was competition along the way top but they, well, died. You didn’t even bother pretending like you didn’t snuff them out yourself. You were all fucking criminals no one gave a rat’s ass if you killed the guy trying to weasel his way into your spot. Someone else might but you? Nah. You were more interested in your own goals. Like your warehouse. Comfortable. Secure. Air conditioner constantly running in your office, fancy water constantly stocked. Dressed in some damn expensive clothes for someone who was never going to walk Hollywood Boulevard or even touch foot in Paris. You were just wearing it because you could, and that was well worth every body you left for the buzzards. At least you were feeding the local wildlife, right?

The latest reports were looking good. Some, ha, rivals, were trying to transport goods through your turf. Which was hilarious because they were such a small, small group. They were hardly a threat to the smallest fish Deadlock had to offer. Maybe they could if they were the ones who pulled the ambush. Everyone got lucky sometimes. They weren’t even good enough to be recruited. The whole ‘do what we say and live’ thing was only really a good tool if presented to useful folk. A shame. But you made out well. Only took a few sharpshooters and some knives and you had yourself an entire truck of valuable electronic components. It would be so, so quick to sell all of it and for such a high profit. And it just walked right into your lab. It was so good and yet. Not much of a challenge. How boring.

You poured yourself a full canteen of water, strapping it to your hip and striding to your weapons cabinet. Shelves, lit with soft yellow light, lined with delicate velvet, covered with hundreds of lightweight throwing knives. Your weapon of choice. Lightweight ceramic, hard as steel and much more difficult to detect. You slid them into a variety of pockets hidden into every facet of your clothing. Subtle and clean. No one would ever know that you were armed until the knife was buried deep in their eye. And then. Well.

You had surprises for them.

The Deadlock’s shooting range was really just a thin strip of road with some bottles at the end. Although when your gang said ‘bottles’ that usually meant ‘people we don’t like’. Which was unfortunate for them, it really was. But there were tons of options for staying off of Deadlock’s shitlist. Like, ‘do what the gang says’ and ‘give them money’ and ‘stay quiet and don’t look at them’. Options for every budget and lifestyle.

Unfortunately Carridan was already there, missing every single shot from his pistol. You hovered long enough to watch him switch to a rifle and keep missing with that too. Every single shot, even when he stepped a little closer. What a champion. What a treasure.

Ugh.

You didn’t really enjoy the other bosses. They were only tolerable at a certain mythical sweet spot of drunkenness. Too sober and they were nightmarishly boring. They weren’t too used to seeing the world with any kind of clarity and it grated on their patience and yours. Too drunk and they were fucking wrecks. Incapable of walking themselves to the bathroom let alone holding a conversation. You didn’t hate them. If it wasn’t for their actions the gang wouldn’t have survived being so thoroughly stomped by Overwatch. And if the gang didn’t survive, you wouldn’t have had the chance to build your way to the comfort you enjoyed now.

Carridan was your least favorite, if only because he lacked the foresight that graced literally everyone else at the table. His time was short. As soon as you found someone, anyone, more competent; anyone that could really generate income and strengthen the weak link that was Carridan’s group, you were going to kill him. You could just kill him now but then there’d be a power scramble and it was more convenient to let the headache keep walking. No one would bat an eye either way but it was for your own benefit. He caught sight of you as he finished wasting the rifle shots and was putting his greasy hands on a smg.

“Hey there firecracker, come to get some tips from an old pro?” Carridan grinned. You tried to smile back, at least he was being friendly.

“Sorry Carridan, you know I’m not really a gun type of person. I like my knives.” You flicked your wrist, a knife appearing between your fingers. “They’re more, subtle. Easier to sneak past security. Plus I don’t want to bother you while you’re out here. You deserve some peace and quiet.”

“Haha, that’s why I like you. Sharp and considerate. Some of these assholes could learn from you.” He laughed, motioning to the men setting up his firing range. “I’ll talk to you later then. I could use some information on smuggling… product, through a certain area tomorrow. I know your regions, haven’t checked any maps lately but it smacks of your kind of turf.”

“I can check through my sources for you, probably even lend you some men if you’re interested.” You wouldn’t turn down the opportunity for a taste of someone’s score, even if that someone is Carridan, of all people.

“Fantastic! Sounds great! Ah I love ‘em big and easy. You there, give me that baby.” He shouted, grabbing his hands at the next weapon.

Ugh.

On one hand you loved your life, you really did. You had everything you had ever wanted. A home, air conditioning, unrestricted access to whatever food or water you got a craving for hell. You even had health insurance. You were living life good. But on the other hand, you had to admit it to yourself. Not every member of your gang was even remotely tolerable. But unfortunately for you, the deadlocks that worked under you weren’t enough to stand as their own gang. And you didn’t quite yet have the power to take over the whole thing by force. Damn if that wouldn’t be good though. Get yourself a goddamn castle.

If you weren’t going to practice… ugh. A job then? You don’t have enough good leads worth following yourself and sending men out to investigate didn’t solve the initial problem of your boredom. You could take up drinking yourself under your desk in the middle of the day. That sure sounded productive.

“Boss!” You sighed, not really pausing as a young man in his late teens ran up to you, followed by a second young man that far outpaced his companion in raw fear. Looked close enough to fainting that you were tempted to punch him the rest of the way.

“I got news you’re going to like!” The first young man shouted. Something with a B. Bartholomew? Bertrand? Barry? You’re not sure. Most of the crew went by nicknames and mostly that was because there was at least 15 Johns and everyone got sick of that real fast. Maybe his name was John. No, no. Clipper. He was Clipper, the other one Bean. There was no good way he earned the nickname ‘Bean’.

“I don’t think this is good news.” Bean whined under his breath as though you couldn’t hear him from three feet way. You couldn’t hold it against him. He was new enough to your command but he seemed a skilled mechanic. At least, his work done for another boss had been enough to catch your attention. With the right support, faked or otherwise, he could gain the confidence he needed to be truly useful. Give a man security and he’ll become the asset you want. Maybe he’ll even be a good enough worker for you to know his actual name.

“Oh, boss’ll like this. Guess who we saw in Dorado when we were running that delivery last weekend?” Clipper grinned. He had a talent for convincing people that he belonged. Let him get away with things enough to catch Deadlock’s attention. If anyone was going to rise to the occasion it would be this one. Yeah. You had good people. Just wish you remembered their damn names.

“Was it… ah, a Los Meurtos? Someone high ranking I hope.” Hmmm. Those people could do some things with a keyboard. They had lost their greatest asset a long time ago and that was disappointing but hey. Chasing after one of them and putting them in the ground could still be pretty fun. Beat sitting in your office staring at the walls.

“No. We saw Jesse McCree.”

You go quiet for a moment and just stare. Letting the information settle. Everyone in Deadlock knew McCree managed to survive that little explosion you left him with all those years ago. Everyone was also aware it left him with one less arm and a whole lot of lost time. How long did he have to wait to heal until he got up to his bullshit again. The thought made you smile. The thought of getting into another chase with him and tearing off his other arm made you smile wider. Maybe you could kill him. Maybe you could just piss him off. Either way.

“Hell yes.”

Chapter 3

Dorado. It was a great place if you needed to do stuff in the dark. People always buying, selling, sometimes trading if you were so inclined. Anything and everything. It wasn’t the best city, but still. You enjoyed your business there in the past and you knew you were about to enjoy your business now.

The city was so quiet during the day. You had always pictured cities to be constantly buzzing centers of color and excitement. Cities were these places that were always moving, always doing something big and important and exciting. Breakfast on the go because you had to get somewhere fast and you didn’t have time to sit down and watch the sun rise. Lunch was business meetings with important people who knew other important people and it was all talk about money. Dinner was more meetings, or it was fancy parties, or it was charity events, or it was loud parties in nightclubs with lines out three blocks.

To be fair, the nightclubs in Dorado were pretty good and could get some great lines. But every other part of the day seemed dedicated to the joy of taking your time. Generally you didn’t partake in that joy. Time was money and you wanted more. Today was different, today was the knowledge that somewhere in this city was a familiar face who would put up one hell of an interesting fight. If you were lucky, you could even get him to take our Carridan for you. It was too early for you to take over the man’s holdings but whoever replaced him was bound to be less annoying. And if they weren’t, you would just kill them instead. Either way it was going to be a step up.

You made a little more noise than you usually did when arriving in Dorado, made sure your men did too. Subtly was key when smuggling but not when you wanted to use the product as bait. Whatever the product was. With Carridan it’d probably be drugs, he was always trying to chat people’s ears off about the newest this or that. At least he was on top of the trends but like. Drugs sold well and they got people high. That’s it. Why did he think you wanted to know more?

You made a slow, lazily, steadily tightening circle around the city. With each circle you pulled yourself closer and closer to Carridan’s warehouse. You wanted McCree to know Deadlock was there, that there were plenty of grunts there, but you didn’t necessarily want him to know you were there. After all, Carridan was already there, and one of the bosses wouldn’t be present unless something was really big or really wrong. One boss made it vague. Two bosses? It would be obvious he had been made. He would bolt and then you would be stuck with your coworker who talks too much and a job that would take too long. No it was better for you to be out on the periphery. Waiting. Stepping closer and closer until…

Boom.

Would killing him with an explosion be considered rude? You didn’t carry a gun, though you probably should’ve grabbed a pistol when you were leaving. There didn’t seem a point at the time. You were good, really good, and your tricks were effective. But if it came down to a shoot out you sincerely doubted your ability to take down McCree. He was legendary for his aim. Even one arm down. If you were going to lose that fight, why bother taking a gun?

Range wouldn’t do either. No, this was going to be deliciously up close and personal. A good old fashioned close combat scramble. Get up in his face and either watch the light fade from his eyes or force him to watch it fade from yours. Good shit. And if you walked away from this, which you certainly planned to do, you would have the pleasure of having done the police a favor. He was a wanted man after all.

You wondered if you could still get that bounty if he was dead.

Gunshots in the distance. A smile split across your face and you took off running towards the sounds. How many of Carridan’s men would be down before you were able to get there? Not enough to weaken him, probably. You didn’t think he’d put all of his eggs in one basket.

The warehouse Carridan had for this good was unreasonably massive. Sure it was conveniently located and a great place for a shootout, but he wasn’t there to play with McCree. Carridan was there to make some money. This would attract attention and more importantly, it was too much space. He couldn’t possibly be making proper use of this square footage. Maybe if he was also getting into making, stuff, then you could see it making sense. But again, attention? Someone would wonder what was going on with the old two story tire warehouse? There was only one guy standing guard at the entrance you approached. If you were of the mind he would have made an easy, easy target. It wasn’t enough for you to start a talk with anyone but you sure had Opinions.

“McCree?” You asked the lone guard, motioning to the warehouse. He nodded and immediately opened the door for you. He followed you into the warehouse, stationing himself inside the door. Not the best position. There better be cameras around here.

You reached into your jacket, pulling a knife from your pocket. Should you go for another limb, or just aim for the head? How quick should you make this? Probably should have thought about it before the area descended into chaos and shouting. You headed for the nearest shipping crate, using it for cover to peer deeper into the warehouse. You didn’t see much, it was purposefully dark and the shooting was still partially outside of one of the doors. But you did hear something.

Something very quiet.

Something coming from the crate.

You heard crying. You paused, thinking about the man standing near the door. Not standing guard for cops or passersby. Standing guard for you. Oh well. You could replace him if need be. You threw your knife, watching it sail through the air and plunge itself into the man’s eye. He screamed and tried to pull the knife out as it blinked once. Twice. Three times. And then it exploded and he dropped.

The crate muffled a frightened scream.

You pried open the crate to find three frightened women huddled together in a pile of ratty blankets and fear. They stared back at you for a few quiet, tense moments. You smiled and reached into your pocket, pretending not to notice the way they flinched in terror. You placed some cash on the floor in front of them.

“Go out that door. And keep going.” You crouched to the side and pointed to the way out. The women were too slow but they took the money and ran. And you lingered for a moment. Thinking.

You weren’t a good person. You had done a lot of fucked up shit to a lot of fucked up people. And some not fucked up people. You had shot a witness point black and you never lost a second of sleep over it. Your morals were entirely centered on you and your problems. Everyone else really didn’t matter. So you weren’t approaching this from a position of moral superiority. You were approaching this from a business perspective. Human trafficking was nasty business. It made Deadlock look bad. Less criminal enterprise more degenerate cesspool. You were a business person, you couldn’t have anyone make your organization look anything less than perfect.

That was your problem. It certainly wasn’t a cold rage in the pit of your gut at the sight of living people in a box. It wasn’t a line that had been crossed. It wasn’t the one thing that you wouldn’t allow. It wasn’t the one thing, the one damn thing, that you had promised yourself you would never do to another person. It wasn’t you forgetting all about McCree and instead focusing exclusively on wherever the fuck Carridan was.

You checked each crate you passed, releasing the people you found within. Carridan’s men seemed surprised to see you. Or maybe that was just the exploding knives you kept burying in them. They were always the weakest arm of Deadlock. That’s why you were killing them. There was no dark rage in the depths of your eyes as you stormed your way through the warehouse. Heading for the office area. If Carridan was still there he’d be in his office with guards. If Carridan was in there you were going to murder him.

You slipped past the larger groups of deadlocks trying, and visibly failing, to hold off the invading Jesse McCree. You marched straight to the office, finding Carridan’s second in command at the desk.

“Where’s your goddamn boss.” You snarled, knife in hand, “He and I need to have a little talk about appropriate business practices.”

He opened his mouth and then his eyes flicked down to the phone on the desk. You tried to smooth out your expression, put a smile on your face, and nodded to the phone. As soon as he touched it you jammed an unarmed knife into his hand.

“Is he fucking serious? Did he think he could just ask for help shipping girls? What the fuck is wrong with both of you. Fuck, why couldn’t you just sell drugs like everyone else.” You hissed, twisting the blade, “Tell me where the fuck is Carridan.”

A door to your right burst open, with one of Carridan’s men raising a rifle towards you. You reached your free hand into your jacket to pull out another knife. You would kill every person in here if that’s what it took to take down Carridan. Or maybe if it wasn’t. Depends on how long it took for you to get bored. And then two shots rang out. Both guns pointed at you were dropped. Two corpses fell. And you were confronted with a much bigger, much more personal problem. You still had a knife in your hand. But you did not have the advantage of surprise to get your knives into the air before a gun was drawn. The gun was very much drawn, and in the hand of someone who was very much ready to shoot you.

You didn’t lift your hands. Didn’t even pretend to surrender. You slipped your knife into your sleep and slowly turned to face him.

“Any idea where Carridan is, Mr. McCree.”

“You?” McCree lifted his pistol back towards your face. You weren’t going to claim that you didn’t deserve to get shot. You definitely did. If everyone you’d ever hurt lined up to shoot you in the face there’d be nothing left of you but mist at the end of it all. But you weren’t in the mood to get shot before you killed your mark.

“Yeah, yeah it’s me. Either shoot me or move. I’ve got an asshole to kill. Unless you’re perfectly fine with letting a man who referred to a bunch of women in boxes as inventory living his life somewhere. In which case go ahead and shoot.” You stepped up to him until the pistol was almost touching your face. “Do it, McCree.”

“Oh? Grown a conscious all of a sudden?” McCree glared, lip curled into a snarl.

You just smiled, stepping forward again until the barrel of the gun was touching your forehead. “No. But you sure did.”

The impasse barely lasted for a second before he lowered his gun and lifted you by the collar with his metal arm. And then the gun was back, tucked under your chin. You just sighed. Either he was going to kill you or he wasn’t. He needed to fucking choose oe so you could both get on with your fucking days.

“We’re lookin’ for the same guy? You’re gonna help me. You owe me.” He was practically growling. And for a second you thought it was hilarious that he even thought you’d consider that. Like you didn’t hate his guts for nearly destroying the one ticket you had out of this town. This fucker had no idea how hard you had to work to help bring Deadlock back from the brink. He had no idea what it was like living in a town whose only source of income had been obliterated. Watching everything die around you in a slow, steady march.

But then you thought about those women’s faces. And felt that rage burn in your heart. This didn’t need to be forever. Just long enough for you to kill Carridan. And fuck it, kill every single boss Deadlock had. Take the organization in one fell swoop. If Jesse McCree was going to help you do that then well. That’d be just fine.

“Fine, Partner.”

—

As soon as he let you go and put his gun away you were on your phone. The safest way for you to move forward was to make this look like an intentional coup. Like you were just ready to take over Carridan’s stock. You weren’t, but you needed the image.

“Hey, Riley. Give the orders to the crew, start taking out Carridan’s people.” You ignored the look McCree was giving you. You were probably going to need to do that fairly often. God damnit.

“Got it Boss.” An immediate answer. You smiled and hung up. Maybe you were ready to lead Deadlock. It would start with taking over Carridan’s arm and then cascade one into the other. You might not have the time to properly learn the members backgrounds but, there were enough of your recruits in each branch. This would be rough but doable. And if Deadlock’s profits dropped a little, who better to bring it back than you?

“Is that how you’re doing this?” Bitter, so very bitter. This was going to be a wonderful adventure.

“What, do you not want my help after all? I can leave.” You raised your eyebrows and waited. His anger was your sweet, tasty fucking fuel. So you blew off his arm. Big deal. It’s not the worse that you’ve ever done and not the worse that you’re ever going to do. Not that you cared if he got over it or not. You only intended to work with this guy until you could get as many of Deadlock’s bosses in the ground as possible. And then? Eh. You’d burn that bridge when you got to it.

You were probably going to stab him in the back. Literally. Maybe the back of his neck? That would be a bit more ‘confirmed kill’. You could plan everything out a little more later, after everything was said and done. An opening would present itself to you if you stayed calm and collected.

“Keep your slimey lowlife friends out of this.” McCree tilted his head, listening to the approaching sound of sirens. You motioned towards the backdoor and then slipped out. It would be better if you had rigged the place with something but time was of the essence. You would have to settle for a door frame. You plunged a knife into the edge of the frame, but before you could arm it McCree gripped your wrist.

“I aint lettin’ ya kill anyone we don’t have to.”

“Who says we don’t have to?” You retorted.

McCree leaned closer, his grip tightening. “Remove it.”

He glared at you, so close now that you could smell the cigar smoke on his breath. See the parts of his beard that he hadn’t trimmed recently. See the rage he was barely keeping contained in the deepest, darkest parts of his eyes. Oh he hated you. He hated you and that was fucking hilarious. His hatred was personal and sharp. Yours was broader, casual. His could consume him. Yours entertained you. It was great.

So you obliged. Pulled the knife from the door and tucked it back into your jacket. Lead the way through the dark corridors of the warehouse offices and out through a window into a small alleyway. Down and out through the street. Away from the sirens and flashing lights and passed the fancy hotel you were supposedly staying at, where there were shadows shifting in the window that was supposedly yours. Instead you took him to a more rundown motel, where there was less security and more ‘complimentary metal room bats’. Into the last room in the back, where you had your stash of necessary goods. You liked luxury but being exposed wasn’t worth it. This was more practical.

The room was fairly shitty even before McCree made the choice to gloom up the corner of it. The room had been painted a creamy pastel yellow, once. Now it was stained to hell and back and age had the paint turned blotchy light orange that wasn’t helped by the dim flickering bare bulb on the ceiling. The bedding was older than you, threadbare and thin. If it didn’t start with a pattern it had one now as the thread lost its color unevenly. The carpet was the only thing that was decent, and that’s only because they bothered to vacuum here on the occasion. You reached behind the headboard and pulled out the paperclip that secured your defensive rig to the bed frame, allowing you to safely reach under it and pull out your bag.

You only really travel with one thing. Cash. A lot of cash. Need new clothes? Go buy them. Need more knives? Go buy the materials. You were a criminal and a smuggler and a big enough name in the black market that you could get what you needed. Even if you had to kill someone to do it. Would that count as ‘necessary’?

“Now I would think to just go look for him back at the hideout, but I’m guessing you have other information.” You said slowly, sealing your bag and throwing it over your shoulder. McCree looked annoyed. Probably decided whether or not to actually work with you on this. You wouldn’t mind walking away… maybe leaving some knives tucked into the doorway. See if he wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice.

McCree slowly held out his hand, the prosthetic one and looked at you expectantly. “Give me your phone.”

He had to be fucking kidding. There probably wouldn’t be any time to call for help if something happened between the two of you but you wanted the option there. Just so that he knew it was there too. A little bit of a threat went a long way, and a small militia at your beck and call was more than a little threat. He didn’t move. His hand was still held out and he was still waiting. So you ignored him. Sat on the bed. Deliberately played some games. Waited until he started to get annoyed and loomed over you from the side of the bed.

“Phone, Now.”

You could argue the point. Could jam a knife into that arm of his and make him lose it twice. Now wouldn’t that be fucking poetic. Ugh but if you were going to do that you would want cameras around. Take the footage home, edit it yourself. Put it on a fucking loop with some jazz in the background and make that your entire website. Which meant that you couldn’t put a knife in his metal prosthetic now. That would be such a fucking waste of an excellent opportunity. You could always get a new phone, this one was running a little slow anyway. You knew all of the numbers you needed to know if he stepped too far out of line. And that’s if you didn’t find a way to take him down with you.

McCree took the phone from you, taking the time to slowly snap it in half and crush it into pieces. Part of you considered reminding him that he didn’t need to grind the phone into flour and bake bread with it to keep you from calling in again. Another part of you didn’t think he was worth the breath. Let him have his moment. You would have plenty of your own to enjoy and savor.

“He’s not going back. If my… information… is right he’s going to be headed towards Hollywood. You packed?” He dusted off his hands and pointed to your bag. You nodded and slung it over your shoulder.

“Why Hollywood?” You didn’t think there were any Deadlock resources that far out. You wandered the furthest and even you didn’t bother looking into any properties there. It wasn’t the right time, expansion was good but Los Angeles was the type of territory you didn’t reach into without all your focus. You certainly did business there but Carridan didn’t. So what the fuck? Did one of your contacts turn? That would be a pain in the ass, you would have to kill Carridan and your contact. God you hope it wasn’t the one who was always wanting handguns. You wouldn’t have a problem finding another buyer but his mother made the best fucking brisket that you’ve ever had. She wouldn’t give you the recipe when her son was alive so asking after you killed them probably wouldn’t work. Unless you leveraged his life… and then killed him. Hm.

“I got intel and that’s all you need to know. Only reason I’m bringing you along is it seems like you and him aint friends.”

“You could say that about anyone I know.” You smiled. Friends in your world meant people you traded money with. People who gave you more money than you gave them were best friends. People who didn’t give you any money were not people you wanted anywhere near you.

McCree tried to keep his disgust to himself but you could see it clear enough. He didn’t need to hide his hate, you knew. You blew him the fuck up of course you knew. Like it was some kind of goddamn mystery, get on your fuckin’ phone and call up the dog and his gang to come investigate the mystery of whether or not Jesse McCree hated the deadlock that fucked him up. Without them no one would ever know.

Fuck this guy.

“Fine, let’s get going then. I don’t want to wait for any of his leftovers to come sniffing around.” You heard him stomp behind you, his footsteps growing quieter the further you were from the hotel room until you only knew he was there from the looming sense behind you. So. You were taking some risks. Aside from the obvious bodily harm, there was the sea of wanted posters with McCree’s face on them. Your name wasn’t so much as a blip on any cop’s radar. The ones you had in your pocket didn’t even know who you were or what you looked like. Your face would be associated with his if you weren’t careful. That would get you on watch lists and ruin your fuckin reputation.

The people working under you better make it perfectly clear that you’re doing this just to take over someone else’s holdings. It’s all about the money, and if everyone knows that it’s all about the money no one would think you were turning any fucking leaves. You were the same shitbag you always were, but now you were including manipulating your enemies to the list of shitbag things you liked to do. Including theft, smuggling, murder, arson, kidnapping, blackmail… You should get some business cards printed. At least a few, for your own entertainment. You’d have to kill the printer afterwards but eggs and omelettes.

You would have to ditch the car you brought. Not a big loss, it was old and slow and you had already rigged it with explosives anyway. You pulled a small bag of spare plates out of the trunk before pressing a tiny button and closing it. A small parting present for anyone who knew to look for the car in order to find you.

McCree was more focused on your second bag instead of what your hand was doing as it closed the lid. Fantastic. The last thing you wanted was some moral discussion on leaving a rigged car in the middle of a public parking lot. Oh what if someone innocent gets hurt, blah blah blah. There was no one innocent in this area of the world. Anyone who saw that abandoned car and tried to get into it was going to be another criminal like you. And even if they weren’t what did you care.

“Spare plates, for a car.” You explained, invested in keeping his attention on you.

“We aint stealin’ a car.” He frowned and immediately moved to place himself between you and the cars parked on the side of the road. You rolled your eyes. So desperate to keep his pretty little hands clean.

“I would never. I’m going to rent one. You’re going to, do whatever you’re good at. Can you twirl your gun on your finger? Go do that like. On a corner or something. Get a box to stand on. Use your phone as a spotlight.” You took off walking down the street at a brisk pace. He could do whatever he had to do, you weren’t walking. What were his alternatives? Getting onto a bus? Taking a train? You hated trains, unless you were blowing them up for profit. At least planes ended the trip quickly enough. Trains were speeding death cans that you willingly sat in and watched the mountains blurred by until you inevitably went off the tracks and flew off into the fucking sun and exploded and died.

If you were stealing a car to sell it, then you would probably want a fairly nice car. Something that would actually bring you some profit. If you were stealing a car for use though. You wanted a car that would be under the radar. The sort of car that everyone had and no one particularly wanted. It wasn’t bad but it wasn’t great. A plain silver car with an unimpressive, uninteresting body shape with enough gas mileage to get you to work with little panic. It’s exactly what you wanted. A shame that McCree broke your damn phone. A shame that he seemed eager to fight you on this. And on everything. Could you blame him? No. Did you intend to blame him anyway? Of course. You were nothing but the picture of fucking friendliness.

Maybe you could… compromise. “Fine, we’ll rent a car then. I’m not hitchhiking to Hollywood. One of us actually cares about how often they appear on the news.”

“Maybe some prison time would do you good.” McCree muttered. It wasn’t a disagreement though so you’d take it. You still planned on fucking with the rental plates but he didn’t need to know that exactly. All you needed was a chance to make him look away.

“I’m less worried about the cops and more worried about people getting the wrong idea. Cops can be paid off, but if folk think I’ve turned? I’ll be out a shit ton of sellers. I don’t want to put out the time and effort to fix any burnt bridges.” You’d have an easier time of convincing people you were just using McCree if you didn’t end up on camera with him. You’d have the easiest time of convincing people you were just using McCree if you killed him in front of them. Hell maybe you could even make it a thing, put on a show for your dearest allies and dealers.

Was that fucked up? Probably. Too bad crimelords didn’t really have an opportunity to get a therapist. You definitely needed one.

—

It took exactly half an hour for the car to start smelling like cigar smoke. It took two hours for the smell to embed itself into the shitty taped together fabric seats, the dash, the carpets, the mats, and pretty much every single surface in the car. The windows were open, they didn’t close, and yet somehow. You didn’t even dislike the smell of cigars but you did dislike being unable to escape the constant cloud he was putting out. Where did McCree even get a fucking cigar.

You were never fond of roadtrips with other people. Alone? Oh, Alone they were magical. Being out on the road with nothing but a flat horizon surrounded by an endless sea of dirt and debris, the only sounds being a half-functioning radio and the steady thunder of the wind rushing past. Stopping only when you had to, at little roadside fueling stations that saw maybe a handful of customers a year and still had candy bars on their shelves that hadn’t been manufactured since before you were born. Sipping half flat soda on your car hood watching the sky turn to dusk. That was something to savor. Nothing made you feel like you belonged in the universe like being completely alone on the open road.

Roadtrips with someone? Fuck that. The fighting over the radio, having to pull over every 10 minutes because they needed to stretch their legs, the endless fucking cacophony of nonsense just pouring out of their god damn mouths like they got food poisoning from their own thoughts. Oh look at that, look at this, let’s sing a song, let’s play a game, let’s get on your fucking nerves until you’re liking the idea of plunging your car off the side of a bridge. There was no escape from them either, you were locked in the fucking tin can for hours with little chance for a breather. Just them, sitting there next to you, ruining your goddamn high with their goddamn presence. McCree made it all the more worse by switching between his ‘riveting’ pointless tales and long blocks of filling your rental with cigar smoke. You were lucky you were intending to steal and or destroy this car or you would get chewed out for ruining the interior.

“And that’s when the guy comes out of a coffin, a real damn coffin, dressed head to toe in a handmade, amazingly detailed headless horseman outfit. I’m talkin’ handmade down to the leather gloves. The sort of thing you’d only see in movies cause the real deal costs too much, ya know?” McCree talked with his hands a lot. You would love to put a knife in one of them and just hope he accidentally put you out of your misery telling you more about fucking office parties.

The beautiful glow of a tiny roadside rest stop was the greatest thing you’d ever seen in your life. It was freedom in fading fake neon and sun bleached paint flakes. A promising moment of sweet peace. You pulled in, delighting in the promise of the world’s largest toothpick: Now with Air Conditioning! Which, they should have had a long time ago given the nature of the region but hey. At least they had it now.

The place was deserted, almost reminded you of home with the way the cobwebs hung down from the ceiling weighted with heat and nothing else, the way the cashier glanced out the window and just went back to staring blankly ahead of them because it really didn’t matter. There was nothing else here but a few trailers where they could relax when they weren’t spending their time waiting for the next stranger to wander by. Nostalgia tasted like dust and stale air.

“Give me the keys.” McCree thrust his hand towards you, wiggling his fingers impatiently. You rolled your eyes and handed them over. He said nothing else. He pocketed the keys as he slid out and headed towards the shop, disappearing into the bathroom. You could not have gotten a luckier break. Safe from McCree’s annoying moral judgements and protected by the cashier’s aura of indifference, you were free to switch the plates at your leisure. It was surprising that McCree didn’t see that coming, but hey, it was his own fault for letting you keep the bag. Not that you didn’t just toss the whole thing into the garbage. Unless he memorized the number he wouldn’t know that the real plates were in the bag with the fakes. It was inconvenient but you planned to make it to Hollywood before you had to change your car. By that point Carridan and McCree would be dead and you could do what you damn well pleased.

McCree was taking… a long ass time in the bathrooms. Probably making contact with whoever was giving him his info. Gave you some time to wander the tiny shop and pick out whatever had the least amount of dust on it. Jerky was generally safe. You once at a bag of jerky that was older than everyone in town and you didn’t get sick. Well, you did about a week later but you always figured it was the water. You don’t know why you thought it’d be a good idea to drink from the tap. The water back then was gross even when it actually worked.

This place probably didn’t have working plumbing either. Poor McCree, what a bad place to make a call. He should’ve just snuck around back. You piled your haul onto the counter and carefully pulled a few pills out of a stack without letting the cashier or the cameras see just how much you had in your bag. Money made people do things they shouldn’t and you didn’t want to have to leave a dagger in this person’s throat. Especially not with McCree lurking around. You smiled, knowing it didn’t reach your eyes, and settled into the car with the new goal of throwing trash at McCree’s feet. Could you throw it in the backseat? Yes. But were you the one driving? Yes. And that came with consequences for the poor passenger.

Like getting shoved out of your fucking car at high speed.

“Damn, didn’t realize you already picked up some stuff.” McCree muttered, dropping another bag between you.

“I like to pick my own poison, thanks.” You rolled your eyes and impatiently threw out your hand, “Keys?”

McCree shoved them into your hand a little too aggressively but whatever. You started the car and eagerly took back to the highway. The desert was so beautiful, a shame you would start into California’s foothills and perpetually god awful traffic. Why Hollywood?

“So… Where exactly in Hollywood?”

“Hm?” McCree shook himself from the undeserved nap he’d been settling into, “What?”

“I said, where exactly are we going? Hollywood’s not exactly a small space. Are we talking the shiny Hollywood, gross Hollywood, a suburb, what.” Carridan was a man who loved his luxury but you couldn’t see him hanging out in some decked out super-mansion. Even if he was interested in high life parties and socialites, which you doubted, he would stand out like a sore thumb. Someone would notice him and it would get attention on his tail in no time. Would he hang out in the gutter? That’s where you would go, subtle, nasty, no one went there unless they had to and there was no shortage of the desperate and afraid to cover your tracks for you. But Carridan hated ‘lowering’ himself to recruit the way you did. He wanted cleanliness. That left the in-between but there was so, fucking, much.

“… Can’t ya just drive.”

“Yeah, I just need, ya know, a destination? Zip code, cross streets?” Some useful information so you wouldn’t waste time waiting for him in a fast food parking lot while he hid in a bathroom and asked his contact for directions.

“When I say turn, turn.” McCree snapped, shuffling in his seat so he could at least partially have his back to you. Which was something a mature adult did and certainly something a mature adult sharing a small confined space with someone who has tried to kill him would do. Jesse McCree. Picture of fucking wisdom and strategic brilliance. He looked like he’d have all of the mental prowess of a peanut and you were terribly disappointed to see that was correct.

Maybe he was just tired. But fuck, you were tired and you weren’t about to have your back anywhere near him. This was going to at least be a solid 72 hours without sleep. Probably without eating any real food too. You didn’t even like the risk of drive thrus. Only tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants were safe enough to go into and even then, only certain ones knew how to keep their mouth shut. God this was a miserable situation. You should’ve walked away if he didn’t just shoot you. He should’ve just shot you. What made him stop? He knew nothing about you, you were a fucking ghost.

Pity maybe. You, alone, in the middle of a bunch of dead and dying deadlocks. It was clear trouble waiting on your horizon. Did he think you needed rescuing? Did he think he would swoop in and take you on this fucking hunt and that you would finally see a ‘way out’? God, he probably fucking did.

What an asshole.

At least the stories didn’t start back up again. Whatever he did in the bathroom robbed some of that talkative nature out of him. Or he realized that you weren’t paying attention to a single one of them. Something about some guy telling stories about… robot zombies? Omnics couldn’t be zombies, right? That’s just not how they worked. Well, you didn’t think that’s how they worked. Weren’t that many omnics in Deadlock. Yet. Hm. Talk about untapped potential. You would have to think about recruiting a few when you made your way back home. It might be harder, you certainly couldn’t achieve loyalty through medical bills or paid rent. There had to be a way though. There was a honey for every bee if you were willing to tear up enough flowers.


	19. Staring (Junkrat x Reader)

You loved a few things. You loved to knit. You loved fruity tea. You loved math. Loved how even the most unpredictable things had a pattern. You were young when you first joined Overwatch, a prodigy looking for a quiet cave to write out computer programs and offer critical analysis of data and field information. You had always kept an eye on the old Overwatch signals when the organization fell. There was a sense of purpose that you yearned for and, according to your own conclusions, Overwatch would return. There were too many within the group who couldn’t stand to let injustice slide. One of them would step forward. You didn’t expect it to be Winston, but when he called you were at Gibraltar within a week. You brought with you two things. Your service, and your ability to generate funds through your own carefully planned out games in the stock market. You had your criticisms of the field, but for now it would be used to help heroes fight for people.

You spent most of your time in your little office. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to spend time with your teammates. You just lost track of time. You slept strange hours and often woke up in the middle of the night to jump onto your computer and write down a line of code or an idea that came to you. As a result you unintentionally knew very little about the other members of Overwatch. You weren’t even sure who was there and who wasn’t.

Hunger finally pushed you out of your cave and towards the hastily set up mess hall. You could hear voices, one particularly loud and boisterous.

“-freezing up there! I almost lost my good arm!” A man whined. “Woulda killed for a coat.”

Most didn’t notice you slip into the room. Winston did, giving you a warm smile and a wave. You waved back, attention snagged by the loud voice. The man was tall, gangly, and a bit…wrecked. But still good. His eyes were a fascinating shade of yellow, and he was muscular for someone so thin. If he worked shirtless, like he was now, of course the cold would bother him. But a full sweater would bother him too. He would need something thinner, light-weight but still capable of keeping heat in. There was soot in his hair and on his skin, he probably worked with fire or explosives, which meant that the fabric couldn’t be flammable. Well, that should be the case in general, but still. You wondered if he would require something covertly colored or if he would like something brightly colored. Yellow. Like his eyes.

“I said, What. Are. Ya. Staring. At.” He was standing up now, glaring at you. Oh, was he talking to you? That made sense. You opened your mouth but found your thoughts wandering back to your project.

“6? 6'4”?“ You remarked. He was very tall. And now very confused. You immediately left the room, beelining straight for your office. You forgot why you were in there to begin with. Probably food but this was also important. You couldn’t let your teammates go on missions without the proper gear. It was dangerous.

Oh you forgot to ask his name. Oh well. He certainly stuck out. Shouldn’t be hard to find him again.

You liked knitting. It was peaceful and comforting. The patterns were simple. Sometimes it was nice to fall into the familiar and let yourself rest. It took a few weeks to knit your project. You had to stop a few times to help Winston, or check your stocks, or quietly find wherever the tall man was to examine him. It wouldn’t do to get the measurements wrong. Junkrat was his name. You’re fairly sure. His friend’s name is Roadhog. They caught you staring a few times, though you often weren’t aware and left without a word to them.

You knitted him two sweaters with matching gloves. One dark grey, the other yellow. You were pretty sure he wasn’t a stealth fighter, but maybe he wouldn’t like the yellow sweater. Just in time too. You were pretty sure he was being sent to a cold climate again. He would need the sweater to be able to operate to his fullest potential. And also, you just didn’t want him to be cold. And you wanted him to wear the sweaters you made. A bit.

They were in the hangar, preparing their gear at the plane. Mostly Roadhog with his motorcycle. Junkrat mostly shuffled impatiently. He looked up to catch you staring and scowled.

"Oi. Ya gonna stare at me s'more.” He growled. You tilted your head in confusion and walked up to him, holding out the bundles.

“You said you wanted mittens.” But you also made him sweaters. Also you didn’t make him mittens. They are gloves.

“I… What?” He looked at your hands in complete confusion. Slowly he reached out, taking one of the sweaters from your hands and holding it up to him.

“Ya bought me a sweater?”

“I knitted these. They needed to suit your fighting style and comfort levels. You don’t usually wear a shirt so a thick sweater would be uncomfortable.” You explained. “The gloves are light too.”

Junkrat took off his harness, sliding on the gray sweater before buckling it back on. “Hm… This is… Ya made this for me.”

You nodded, taking the yellow glove and sliding it onto his flesh hand. “How does that feel? Is it comfortable? Soft? Are your nails catching the fabric or are you alright?”

He flexed his hand, and gazed at you with confused suspicion. “Why’d ya do this? All ya do is stare at me.”

“Oh… I think I like you.” You remarked, wrapping the other sweater and glove up and tucking it amongst his things. “You’re cute.”

“Ya think I’m cute.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I think. Let me know if those function correctly in the field. If not, then I’ll make adjustments to the designs. I don’t have much experience in creating field gear. I mostly help with strategy.” You paused and tilted your head. “I do have combat experience though. I think Winston doesn’t put me out much because I’m not very sociable.”

You turn and leave without another word, off to work on your own field gear. You were neglecting it while you were making Junkrat’s sweaters, which was a bit of a mistake. One shouldn’t neglect nanobots. You lost track of time as you worked, making adjustments to your nanoswarm. You fell into a new schedule quickly enough. It took Dr. Ziegler coming after you with her boyfriend to shake you from your office.

Showers were great. Food was also great. You could grab yourself a meal and head back to your work by the end of the hour. Except Junkrat was in the mess hall, lounging in his yellow sweater. He looked up at you and winked.

“Hey darl’. Thanks by the way.” He pointed at his sweater. “Ya uh, wanna head into town, grab some tea?”

You beamed at him and nodded, watching him scramble up to join you at the door. He was very cute. That smile on his face was especially excellent. You should make him something else. A hat maybe.

“You’re starin’ again.”

“Oh… You’re still cute.”

Junkrat laughed. “You too darl’, you too.”


	20. Ink (Junkrat x Reader)

“Alright, so we aint havin’ sex. But you do need ta take off your clothes and lie down.” Junkrat grins. You stare at him, blankly, before shrugging and throwing off your clothes. Why not? Worst case scenario your clothes were going to end up part of another scarecrow costume. Best case scenario you had sex.

“If we aren’t having sex, then what are we doing?”

“It’s a surprise! You’ll love it, promise.” Junkrat laughed, his voice trailing from the room. He returned a moment later. You heard the sound of a heavy object being dropped next to the bed. Oh that sounds interesting.

You still don’t believe that this isn’t about sex, not even when he covers you from the butt down with a blanket and turns a bedside lamp on. Because honestly. What else was going to happen? But you weren’t expecting a really, really fucking cold… liquid? to end up on your back.

“What the fuck Jamison.”

“Shhh, shh. Just stay still, let ol’ Junkrat get to work.” Junkrat cooed into your ear. You could feel his fingers pushing the liquid across your back. Was he trying to massage you? With some cold ass lotion? It wasn’t a very good job. But he was humming, and his fingers were so gentle against you. You were relaxing despite your disbelief. It was so rare that you had a quiet moment with either of your boys. Roadhog liked to cuddle with tea but there was never time. And Junkrat, he was just a loud man. Loved noise just as much as he loved his work. But there was no noise except for his own humming. No movement except for his fingers shifting over your skin.

“That’s right darl, you go ahead and relax. I’ve got ya.” Junkrat murmured before he started humming a new song. He sounded like he was having a blast. You wondered what type of lotion he was rubbing into your skin. It felt thick, but didn’t smell like chemical flowers or anything. Hm.

Hours passed under his hands. You weren’t quite asleep, but you weren’t quite awake either. Barely aware of Junkrat calling Roadhog into the room. Barely aware of the sound of Roadhog’s footsteps and his general presence. Junkrat’s massage did nothing for any tenseness in your back but did everything to put you at ease. You were definitely going to have to get him to do it again. Junkrat slowly slid away from you, and then a fucking fan turned on your back. It was, horribly cold.

“I was fuckin’ sleepin what-”

“Calm down, just lay there a moment. Shouldn’t take too long.” Junkrat chuckled. You could hear him fiddling about in the little bathroom, washing his hands and continuing his songs. He came out and turned off the fan, tapping your shoulder and helping you up.

“Come in here.” He asked.

You followed Junkrat into the bathroom. He turned you around and then handed you an old, very dirty hand held mirror. That was, covered in who knows what. He guided you to hold up the mirror until it reflected the bathroom mirror.

Across your back was a large painting that mimicked Roadhog’s stomach tattoo. Except in place of the pig face there was Junkrat’s tire. It wasn’t the most detailed work you’d ever seen, but given that Junkrat painted it with his hands and whatever paint he’d managed to find it was impressive. Breathtaking even.

“Yer afraid of needles, so I figured-”

You turned around and all but threw the mirror onto the counter before you flung your arms around him. “Jamison this is the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. I might have to kick your ass it’s that cute.”

Junkrat smirked as he squeezed you back. “I’d like to see you try darl’.”

“Ya hear that Hog? The fight is on. You’re referee.”

“What fight, you can’t pick up your own gun.” Roadhog snorted. You gasped, scandalized, and then shrugged. That wasn’t true, you could very well pick up your pistol. But you were easily the weakest of the three of them. Didn’t mean you meant to play fair.

“It’s sad, this’ll wash off.” You mutter, gazing over your shoulder.

“Don’t take a shower then!” Junkrat grinned.

“That’s gross Jame. Although I wonder. Would sweat remove it?” You pretended to look thoughtful before brushing past him. You sat on the edge of the bed and wiggled your eyebrows. “Anyone care to find out?”


	21. Historical (Junkrat x Reader)

Museums are places where magic is real. Where it surrounds you, becomes part of you, touches every part of the world. Every step through a museum is a step through time. The history pulses like a melody. You love every kind of museum, they’re all great. But your absolute favorite are historical museums. Places where you can see what life used to be like on the planet. Sometimes the future was too big of a mystery for you to look at on your own. So you went to the past for support and comfort. Museums were places where magic was real. You know that very, very well.

Your favorite museum was the one that you curated yourself. It was the best job in the world and you were always there working or not. It was a low-stress day. There were still crowds but there weren’t the usual families wandering through to coo and the exhibits making movement dense and difficult. It was peaceful and the background conversations were a low, gentle buzz. You walked the art exhibits first. Taking in the way people used to create. The sculptures and paintings and sketches. The needlework was especially interesting. Endless tapestries of mesmerizing color. It must have taken their creators years upon years to carefully weave the delicate thread until it formed an astonishing picture. Simply dazzling.

The natural history exhibits were next. Which meant fossils. A few dinosaurs but also a few ice aged creatures. The rooms were… literally empty of people. You stopped, confused, until there was an explosion followed by alarms blaring. Someone had come to rob the museum during the middle of the day. No one robbed your museum at any time. You narrowed your eyes and slapped your hand onto the nearest skeleton. A Parasaurolophus. Not the most, intimidating of choices. But you guess it didn’t matter what you chose. Your ability was frightening no matter what.

The bones shifted under your touch and slowly the creature stomped down from its podium. The heavy footsteps echoed against the stone and your companion followed you out of the ancient history wing into the central hall. Your eyes fell upon the pair of criminals that were attempting to beeline for the gems and minerals wing. Their eyes fell on your parasaurolophus skeleton. The head shifted towards them and the bones almost vibrated.

You recognized these men. Junkrat and Roadhog. Notorious thieves. They must have come seeking some of the rare specimens in your mineral exhibit. A mistake.

“What the hell is that thing?” Junkrat pointed his, was that a grenade launcher?

“It’s a parasaurolophus, a duckbill dinosaur. Not for grenades!” You snapped.

“Why’s it moving? Can you raise the dead?” Junkrat narrowed his eyes at you. You held back the urge to roll your eyes. A lot of people made that same mistake. You noticed his teammate preparing a large hook. That was acceptable. Unadvisable, but acceptable. A hook would not damage the bones, not much.

“No, not quite. I can just, connect to the minerals in the bones.” You corrected, quietly reaching out your connection. The natural history wing was quite large. And the smilodons were quite fast, even as mere bones controlled by your thoughts. They looped around the museum, heading to flank the interlopers.

“Minerals? Like Rocks. Those bones are rocks?” Junkrat lowered his grenade launcher, stepping closer to peer at the skeleton. You could fight your urge to roll your eyes but you could not fight your urge to educate. Particularly when it came to bones and fossils and your museum.

“Yes, it’s a process called fossilization. Here, I can take you to our exhibit if you want.” You hold out your hand without thinking and before you have the chance to regret it Junkrat slaps his bare hand into yours. You and your fossil guide him back towards the natural history exhibits. His hand is so warm in yours. The dirt doesn’t bother you, you’ve lived years of your life covered in dirt before you realized you loved more than just archeology. It’s the warmth that’s new. Bones rarely hold heat.

You know his friend follows you because your smilodons follow his friend. Roadhog seems well aware that he’s surrounded by living bones. Your safety is in your proximity to your skeleton and Junkrat.

“Here, we just revamped this exhibit actually. The bones were carefully recreated from specimens in our other exhibits. So you can see the freshly decayed skeleton covered in sediment. Dirt. Mineral-rich groundwater seeps into the bones and that solidifies.” You chat as you guide him through each carefully designed, suspended panel.

“What’s that one?” Junkrat pulled you towards a small squat skeleton.

“Pinacosaurus. An armor-plated dinosaur. See, this is what people think they might have looked like a live. But we can’t be sure. We have a poster about this-”

Junkrat follows you from exhibit to exhibit, poster to poster, a grand tour of your museum. You leave your duckbill behind but the smilodons still stalk in the distance. You aren’t willing to completely forego protection just because you’ve built the tiniest bit of comfort up. Junkrat seemed so eager to hear everything, even putting in the effort to ask you so many questions. You didn’t give tours very often. You liked to take your time, to feel the history. You made audio tours and set those up instead. Most people preferred the audio tours. Skippable, adjustable. Better than holding your hand while you eagerly point out the shape of plants from millions of years ago and how much you love the way the leaves curled.

It’s only when you’ve fully looped the museum that you realize Roadhog left some time ago. Not towards your mineral exhibit, the smilodons stalked him to the hole Junkrat had blown up in the gift shop. He did steal a few of the trinkets in there but, really. Best case scenario. The cat skeletons were still hovering near the hole, just outside of view. You silently directed them back to their spots in the natural history wing.

“I think my favorite is the one with the fan.” Junkrat said thoughtfully, looking around the room.

“Dilophosaurus? You know, there are a few lizards with a similar frill that people keep as pets.” You smile. “They’re quite cute. I used to keep a bearded lizard, but I had to send him to a good home for work.”

“Hm. I’d rather keep you.” Junkrat remarked. He winked at you when you looked at him, causing your face to heat up. People rarely flirted with you, they rarely had the chance. You were dedicated to your work. Dedicated to your museum. But he was, different. And he listened to it all. The whole tour.

You chuckled nervously and made the best attempt to flirt you’ve ever done in your life. “Well, we do encourage guests to take an interest in what our museum has to offer.”

“Ya got a phone number darl’? I think our first date went pretty well.”


	22. Workaholic (Lucio x Reader)

You were so fucking tired. And hungry. And thirsty. And you pretty much smelled like you hadn’t bathed in a week. Because you hadn’t. You aren’t too sure when you last ate or had something to drink. You definitely haven’t slept in longer than a week. Your last shower had really just been to keep you awake a bit more. It worked, you guess.

It was just, this data wasn’t going to decrypt itself. You had tried to outsource the work but you couldn’t get ahold of Sombra. And she was in that weird does / does not work for Overwatch situation where you weren’t even sure if you should be hugging her or punching her whenever you see her in person. So you couldn’t really get mad at her for not answering you. You couldn’t get concerned about her well being either. You went through a whole lot of trouble getting this data to begin with; enough trouble that you wanted to get into it as quickly as you could. You could get something to drink later.

You were so close too. At least 80% done. Just a little more and you would be good to go. You could sleep as soon as Winston got the files. Maybe even for days. Then you would eat everything in the kitchen. And then you would sleep more. Sleep sounded so damn good.

A hand closed over your eyes, separating you from your screen. You sighed slowly and half-heartedly tried to swipe the hand away from your face.

“You’ve been at that for days. Time for some rest.” Lucio pulled your office chair away from your desk, guiding you out of your office and down the hall. His hand remains over your eyes. It’s surprisingly soothing. You are so, so tired.

“I have another desk in my room.” You point out. It was synced with your office computer too.

“That’s why we’re going to my room.” Lucio hummed.

You sighed. Or yawned. You’re not even sure at this point. You supposed you could humor him for just a few minutes. His room isn’t that far from yours, you could take an hour’s delay. You didn’t want an hour’s delay. But you could accept that.

Lucio scooted you into his room, finally removing his hand from your face. He motioned to his pillow-laden bed while he fiddled with his sound system.

“Go ahead and relax, I’ve got you.”

You reluctantly sat down on his bed, almost immediately falling back and melting into the soft blankets. You forgot how good lying down was. It was amazing. A soft, pleasant music began to fill the room. Lucio sat down next to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and humming into your shoulder. The stress began to melt away. Aches that you weren’t even fully conscious of disappeared. You loved Lucio’s music. Working with him was always the best. Relaxing into his arms was even better.

You could fall asleep like this. You would be thrilled to fall asleep. But your work. You sighed, disappointment heavy in your throat. “I should finish my work.”

“Shhh, none of that. You need to give yourself a break. Or I’ll do it for you.” Lucio kissed your cheek, dotting kisses across your face until he gently kissed your lips. “I don’t like seeing you so worn out.”

You flushed under his kisses. You forgot that your stress usually became Lucio’s stress. He was probably as tired as you were from worry. You curled your arms around him in turn, lazily kissing him back as your eyes fluttered closed.

“Sorry, got too excited. Love you.” You mumbled.

“Love you too Babe.” Lucio’s voice was the last thing you heard before you dropped promptly unconscious. You woke up to your lovers’ smiling face, a cup of water, and a text from Sombra saying she’d hacked into your computer to finish your work for you. Because that was socially appropriate. You showed Lucio and he laughed.

“Sweet, now you’re all mine.”

“I’m always all yours, you nerd.” You snort, burying your face in his hair. He hummed against you.

“Yeah, all mine.”


	23. Learning to Dance (Lucio x Reader)

Online videos were generally your go-to for learning new shit. Knitting, wood carving, how to fix an engine, you could find anything online. But for some reason, all of the explanations in dance videos just… sucked.

Winston wanted you undercover at some fancy party, your ability to change your shape was extremely valuable in intelligence gathering. Talon supporters and funders were going to be there. You had to find out who. Which meant a lot of wandering around, a lot of flirting, a lot of schmoozing and, a lot of dancing. But you didn’t fucking know how to dance. Stylish shapeshifters don’t need to dance. Stylish shapeshifters don’t need to do shit. Except right now. When you do.

Damn. Maybe you could ask someone? Reinhardt knew how to do the waltz… you think. Or he could just spin around with a hammer. You’d seen Mercy dancing that wasn’t an option. You could ask Genji if you wanted to ruin your cover and your social life.

Oh wait, Lucio. Lucio had to know how to dance. He was a musician after all. Plus he was, pretty cute. It’s hard to find a man who can be a supportive friend and a corporation crushing badass at the same time. Plus he’s hot. Wait maybe you shouldn’t ask Lucio. How bad was Genji anyway? Oh, wait he and Mercy were dating weren’t they. That was two bad dancers routinely dancing with each other. The bad dancing was compounding, exponentially expanding. No. You can’t do that. It’s better to dance with the hot guy than risk learning from those two.

You wandered towards the lounge, leaning through the doors to check if he was there. Your friend and hopeful teacher was relaxing on a couch with music gently pulsing through the room. Alone, surprisingly. Everyone else must be busy. Now is your chance. It’s this, or hope the giant hammer man actually knows how to waltz.

“Um, Lucio. I was, are you doing anything right now?”

“Hm? Oh hey! No, not at all. What’s up?” He grinned when he saw you, his eyes all light and excitement. You hoped your poker face could keep up. The last thing you needed was to blush mid-dance instruction. Or stumble over him trying not to gaze into his eyes or some other romantic shit. Although some romantic shit would be nice. But a guy like that had to have tons of choices a lot more normal.

“I have a mission coming up, and I sorta. Need to learn how to dance, ya know, fancy? Ballroom sort of stuff.” You say slowly, wiggling your hand in the air as you speak.

“Yes!” Lucio shot up, tripping over his own feet and falling.

“Nevermind.”

“Ha, wait c'mon.” Lucio was at your side in a moment, grabbing your hand and smiling. “I’ve got you.”

His hand was so warm. Not exactly soft, but warm and close and it cut off any arguments or comments or thoughts that you might have. It was him. Holding your hand. You were only vaguely aware that he was guiding you through the facility. A small panic kept working its way through the fuzzy feelings. If you were feeling this lightheaded just holding his hand how the hell were you going to pay attention to his lessons. You were dead. The only option now was to fling yourself off a cliff. And luckily for you, the base was surrounded by cliffs. You could even pick your favorite. What sort of cliff looked more jumpable today.

“In here, I’ll put on something great.” Lucio pulled you into his room and released your hand to fiddle with his speaker. You took a careful, shaky breath. His room was surprisingly not immaculate. But not dirty either. The bed looked like he never made it once in his life. There was a sweater thrown over a desk chair and a small clothes pile on the floor at the foot of his bed. But most of it was clean and free of debris. Especially his recording equipment. 

One of his slower, quieter songs began to play and he returned to your side. “Alright, so put one hand on my shoulder. Mine will be on your hip. And we hold our other hands like this.”

“There’ll always be a lead and a follow. See how you’re moving along with me? You’re following my lead. Really well too, great job!” Lucio grinned. You managed a nervous smile. You really, really hoped he just thought you were unsure about your steps. It was easy enough, doing what he was doing. What made it difficult was how damn close you were. You could smell his cologne. And it smelled, really fucking amazing. You aren’t sure like what because you’ve never really sniffed cologne or people before. Was that weird? Probably. It’s weird, and he’s touching you, and he’s so close, and you haven’t been listening to him for at least five minutes now.

Oh he is so close.

Somehow both of your arms ended up looped over his shoulders. His hands are on your hips, holding you close. You don’t know how this happened but honestly it’s great and awful. Grawful. He isn’t saying anything anymore. He’s just watching you with this curious look in this eyes. Swaying to the beat. You might pass out. Passing out would be fantastic. Come on body, follow through.

“You okay?” Lucio asks you softly.

“Yeah. Just um. Trying to remember, everything. Don’t want to die and all. You know.” You would love to be able to look away right now. But you can’t. You just keep gazing into his eyes and feeling woozy and… Well. This is your own damn fault. This is what you get. Don’t ask your crush to teach you how to dance next time, you olive loaf.

“Maybe I’ll come with you.” He brings you a bit further out of your thoughts. You shake your head.

“No, they’ll recognize you right away. It’s dangerous.” You don’t want to risk him getting hurt. He means a lot to people. A lot to you. Fucking feelings. Just, coming into your head. Doing. Stuff. Feelings Stuff. The stuff that feelings do. It’s rude.

“That’s why I want to come.” The swaying stops and he moves one of his hands off your hip. He rests his hand against your cheek, stroking your skin. You go still. Lucio reluctantly pulls away, grabbing something off his desk.

“Your voice… always stays the same. Here. I made this for you.” Lucio hands you a small speaker shaped pin.

“You can adjust the settings on the back of it with those dials.” He explained and then sighed. “I want you to be safe… but I love your voice.”

“I… thanks…” You aren’t sure what to say after that. You already miss his hands on you. The feeling of his body so close to yours. You pin the inactive charm to your shirt and wrap your arms around his neck again.

“Can we um. Keep practicing?” You wish you could have said that smoother. But he beams at you regardless. He’s like the sun this is bullshit who did this.

“Yeah. But first can I just…” Lucio leans up, his lips hovering before yours. You go still for a moment. Your mind blanked and you’re pretty sure your heart stopped. At least you can’t shapeshift that away because if you could this would be the moment. How would you even get that back. Would there be like. a continous vein network or would you immediately bleed internally and- wait what the fuck are you doing thinking about this right now. You press your lips to his, stopping your thoughts again. Haha just kidding. Except now all your thoughts are about him.

Lucio kisses you with a passion, arms tight around you. Hands gripping each other’s clothes for dear life. He leaves you with swollen lips and without breath. You leave him with the same.

“Hey… wanna go… out with me? I just heard of this real fancy party coming up…” Lucio gasped between breaths, his smile unceasing.

You laugh and shake your head, giving yourself a moment to catch your breath. “Lucio, no. Solo mission. But if you want to do something afterward… My schedules always open for you.”

“Good…” Lucio raised his lips towards yours again. “Good.”


	24. Music is Powerful (Lucio x Reader)

Music is powerful. It inspires, it empowers, it makes the world move. Sound controls so much of the world. You love music, love the science of sound. You intended to dedicate your life to studying it. Performing was never in the cards. But things can move beyond your control. You were paid to weaponize your research. When you refused you were threatened. It came down to the simple choice of perform or die. It tainted your love of music but when you stepped on stage, speakers spiraling, floating through the air on a mixture of magnetics and traditional propulsion. The way the crowd responded. It was addictive.

The music pulses through you. Your earpieces protect you from your own noise. You lull angry crowds into peace with an tune. Wipe away upset faces with a melody. You tell them it’s okay. They agree with you. They dance with you. Sing with you. Fall asleep at your feet.

Music is powerful.

You did not realize that you were funded to oppose someone. That you were created, to oppose someone. Not until you were paid to go to the streets of Brazil and sing in front of a headquarters being rebuilt. Not until you first saw his furious face at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up at you with a righteous fury. You pretended to not notice his rage. You sang. He dropped the beat. His music shielded against your music and you were caught between your own emotions. Admiration for the beauty he created. Anger that his technology was a match for yours. Fear. That you were going to die for a cause you did not believe in.

Your benefactors. Your masters. Intervened in time. Removed you from the public stage and spirited you away. Ordered you to improve. So you did. You tried.

Your job was to soothe the crowds. To make them love a specific target. In this case. Vishkar. You were ordered to make them love the corporation. At times, you were successful. You left them dazed and dizzy with love and affection. Left them happily announcing their affection and support for a corporation you knew hated them. At other times, he was there. And he was just as good as you. He was better than you. Stronger. You fled.

He was stronger than you. He believed in his cause, in his city, in his people, in his music. He fought for freedom.

You weren’t free.

You couldn’t understand his passion. You could. But it was, a fever dream. It was impossible. It was Not. Going. To Happen. Every time you ran from him you cemented your own reality. Every failure another link in your chain, growing ever heavier.

You didn’t want to perform anymore. But you had to. It was your job. Your task. So you wandered, searching for a public square, a pavilion, a park. You couldn’t find a suitable place. Couldn’t bring up the will to search harder. You just wanted to do your job and return home to the tiny apartment and workspace they had given to you. You couldn’t sing for love today. But you could sing for obedience. Submission. Weariness. They could not rebel if they felt like you did. The effect was the same. You turned on your speakers and sang as you walked, the aria ripping itself out of your throat, burning your lips. You sing of wires, glittering and golden, weaving up around you, around them. Cages hung perilously over shrieking seas with nowhere to go but a plunge into the icey water. There’s nothing but the cages. The Cages. Or Death.

“Why’s all your stuff depressing.”

You almost scream but find you can’t, your breath strangling itself as you stumble over yourself and fall. He was there, leaning on a wall, watching you with that familiar anger. You don’t have an answer for him. Your speakers hover between the two of you. They can form a shield, if you ask it of them. If you sing it. But you can’t. Is it fear? Or is it just. That you can’t.

Lucio doesn’t move, he just watches you, angry and tense. Waiting for you to speak. But you can’t, and you don’t, and all you do is sit there collapsed on the cold and dirty ground and stare. You’re not even sure you’re blinking. All you wanted to do was study.

“What you people don’t understand, is freedom. It’s important, and we won’t let you take it.” He growls. You open your mouth to argue. They can take freedom. They can do it quite well. But you can’t. So you don’t. You just sit there. Collapsed.

“Do you even know who you work for? Do you even know what you’re doing to people?” He’s yelling and has gotten up off the wall and you. You aren’t even scared anymore. You don’t know what’s going on with you.

“Utilizing sound frequencies to influence subconscious thought and emotional state.” You answer without trying. The words just come out, prefabricated. Something about the way you spoke must of seemed… off. Because his expression changed. Like all the anger was wiped out of him. He crouched in front of you, staring into your face.

“Do you need help.”

You fail to speak again. But you do cry. It’s a silent, motionless thing. Tears move down down your face in heavy sheets. Your vision blurs and your throat constricts and you are a heavy limp weight that gets picked up and cradled. You fall asleep, or fall unconscious, or just fall. You aren’t sure. Time stops, skips ahead, spirits you away to a different place. You wake up to warm blankets, gentle lights, and a somewhat familiar song playing in the next room.

Your speakers are set on top of a dresser, inactive but whole. The only thing that’s missing is your central control piece. The necklace you wore. You weren’t sure if you wanted to find it or not.

“Are you awake in there?”

“Yes.” You call. You’re surprised you have your voice with you again. Lucio enters the room, cradling a pair of headphones between his hands. Their casing is open, wires exposed, and you can see parts of your necklace control piece in them.

“Your necklace had a tracking chip in it, so I took the whole thing apart. Figured these would suit you better. Left them open for you to take a look.” He carefully set them down on the dresser and stepped aside. You couldn’t quite understand why he wouldn’t just destroy the entire piece. But you looked. The work was solid. You would’ve done it differently, you could improve the sensitivity. But it was solid.

“What do you think?” His voice was gentle. When you looked at him it took you a moment to recognize his face. You knew the anger so well. This, this was gentle understanding. This was care for a stranger. No, you were no stranger. This was care for an enemy.

“It’s good work.” You look back at the headphones. It’s easier to look at them. They don’t confuse you. A hand rests on your shoulder.

“You have skill, and a nice voice. I could use your help. A lot of people could use your help.” He sounds so earnest and hopeful and kind and- and good. You can’t help but start crying again. You nod through the tears, or you think you do, and find yourself in a warm embrace.

“It’ll be alright. You’ll be alright.” He’s so soothing. You wipe away your tears and shakily smile at him.

“Thank you, sir.” You murmur.

“Nah, no sir. Call me Lucio. C'mon, I have some ideas for a sweet duet.” Lucio waved you into the other room. You gathered up the headphones, settling down in the chair next to him to add your own touches to the project.

Lucio shuffled some tools towards you and smiled. “We’re gonna be a great team. I just know it.”


	25. Lines of Code (Pharah x Reader)

Working for Helix was exhausting. You suppose that working for any company could be exhausting. There was no job in the world that couldn’t drain a person’s energy. But most companies didn’t concern themselves with the safety of the world or the containment of the god programs. Most companies were a lot more concerned with finance reports and marketing and donut fridays. Luckily for you, you dislike the awkwardness of shared office food. The expansive made-to-order dining hall at Helix would suit you just fine, thanks.

All the exhaustion is worth it in the end. Most programmers are kept contained in an office. You, however, go all over. You’re shifted throughout the various Helix facilities and experience on and off stints as a field programmer. You’re one of the best in the company, in the world. It’s exciting. It’s different. You have lived on almost every continent, in dozens of countries. You’ve seen things. Lived life. Saved lives.

You don’t have anything to say when the company wants to transfer you to the Giza facility. There’s nothing to say. It’s the Giza facility. Of course you’re going. You are meant to work in the facility, mostly on your own assigned projects and shifting around the varying project teams. There’s always the chance you may be required to help in the field and that’s fine. You’re no stranger to programming while being shot at. It’s not as bad as it sounds.

Working on your own stuff sounded great until you saw her.

The Security Chief, Fareeha Amari. The woman stood like a statue of some legendary hero. And for all intents she sort of was. From what you heard she managed to lead a team to contain Anubis with the lowest casualty rate in company history. Her team respected her and often refused any offer for transfer. Most team members cycled to prevent stress from overwhelming them and to keep performance quality high but the Giza team seemed set in stone. It was a testament to Security Chief Amari’s skill.

She was so lovely. So unspeakably lovely.

It was enough to make you want to transfer. You never asked for one, working at the Giza facility was a dream come true. Working with the most wonderful woman you’ve ever known was the problem. Or, not a problem? She wasn’t a problem it was just… distracting. She was beautiful and strong and brave and kind and…

Whenever she spoke to you she seemed to take a genuine interest in what you were doing. Which was impressive, as you’d dedicated your life to code and programs and creating digital security protocols and you couldn’t spend that long listening to your peers. But she always came to talk to you, always wanted to listen. It was wonderful. It was distracting. You were caught constantly between desiring her presence and wanting her to leave. She was just so gentle. So sweet. You adored her.

Fareeha, no, Chief Amari. Chief. Amari. Her name made your skin grow hot and your heart race but you were a professional.

Chief Amari was in your office again. She brought lunch with her for the both of you. She called out a greeting, your name sounding like music from her lips. Which you do not notice. You do not notice her lips. Why would you be looking at her lips? You wouldn’t. You aren’t. You are minding your own business and being a professional.

“Good afternoon, Amari.” You yawned, pushing yourself away from your computer. Your eyes were slightly aching from a marathon session. You normally took breaks but you were on a roll. The code was practically pouring out of your fingertips like rain water. You’d practically gotten a week’s worth of work done in a few overworked hours.

“You look tired.” Amari said softly. Her eyes were creased with worry. Your guilt conflicted with your highly inappropriate elation. Guilt that you made her worry. Elation that she cared in the first place.

“I’m alright. I just spent a little too much time at the computer. But I’m almost done with my latest program. It’s a detection and distraction measure. Like, keeping big cats entertained while you’re studying them. It’s something for the god program to chase that also keeps track of the program’s activities and movements. I can’t update it without extreme and unnecessary risk, so I have to make sure the piece has longevity and will work without any care- oh sorry. I got carried away.” You pick up a plastic fork, poking at your dish.

Amari chuckled, putting a hand over your empty one. Her fingers were so warm against your skin.

“It’s alright. I like hearing you talk.” She assured.

“Oh…Thanks Amari.” You tried not to think about how nice her hand felt on yours. How much you wanted to be close to her.

“You can call me Fareeha you know. You’re allowed to call your girlfriend her name.” Amari smiled at you. Your brain short circuited. Your girlfriend. She called herself your girlfriend. You glanced down at your shared lunch. Lunch she’d been bringing for a little over a month now. Every day.

“Oh my god we’ve been dating for weeks.”

Amari, no, Fareeha, started laughing. Hard. She gripped your hand and covered her face as tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.

“You didn’t know?” She wheezed.

You shook your head with an embarrassed sputter. Weeks. You didn’t even realize she liked you despite weeks of time spent together. You were clever. You programmed containments for the fucking god programs. You were at the forefront of your field. You were a master. You were smart as hell. And yet.

Weeks.

“Do you not want to?” Fareeha asked, concern glinting between her amusement in her eyes.

“No! I mean, yes, I mean. Sorry. I really like you and I didn’t realize that you liked me because I was so busy working or trying to work but I just kept thinking about you so I wasn’t working as fast as I normally do but that was still fine because the quality wasn’t the issue but I was just so caught up in thinking about work and you and thinking of you and liking you and liking work and- I’m doing it again.” You paused to catch your breath.

“I like listening to you talk.” Fareeha squeezed your hand again.

“I like you.” You dropped your head against the desk the two of you used as a table. Fareeha laughed again, running her hand through your hair.

“My poor sweetheart. What do you say we go take a nap after lunch?” She offered.

“Yeeessssss. I’m dying. Thank you Fareeha.” You sighed, pushing yourself back up.

“Any time, you silly thing.”


	26. Welcome Her Home (Pharah x Reader)

You were married to the most wonderful, most gentle, most brave woman in the world. On one hand that meant you were blissfully happy. On the other hand, you were constantly worried. Fareeha had such a dangerous job and if it came down to it she would do anything to protect the people who served on her team. You were so proud that she was there to protect the world from the escape of a god program, so very proud. But it left you terrified you were going to get a knock at your door and see one of the other raptora pilots looking at you with sympathy and regret in their eyes.

Every time you heard a knock at your door your heart seized and your breath froze in your throat. You opened the door with hesitancy and in most cases you were greeted with the relieving face of your wonderful wife. Today however, you were greeted with an older familiar looking woman, leaning an unconscious bleeding man on her shoulder.

“Is this the Amari residence?” The woman asked, exhaustion plain in her voice. Logic, and Fareeha’s teaching, told you to just close the door. But something about this woman… Something about her made you nod and open the door.

“Yes, please come in.”

“You need to be more cautious,” The woman scolded, but still she carried the man inside and laid him on the tile of your hallway. You immediately ran to fetch your first aid supplies. This didn’t seem like a hospital situation. This also didn’t seem like a situation you should let happen. Fareeha was not going to have a good time when she got home.

You joined the woman at this man’s side, opening your box and slipping on a pair of gloves. You caught her eye, “I’m a nurse, ma’am.”

“Are you? Fareeha married well then.” She replied. And then you stopped paying her any mind. There was, after all, a dying man on your floor. But not dying, just heavily injured. Mostly bruises but there was enough blood loss for you to worry. Best case scenario it wasn’t his. Worst case scenario, it wasn’t his. Still, you had already started this situation. You might as well see it all the way through. Bandage his wounds, listen to his breathing, arrange him comfortably on the guest bed.

You made tea while the woman cleaned up in your bathroom. As the water came to a boil, a thought came to your mind. This woman looked so familiar. With a tattoo under her eye, just like the one your wife had.

“Um… You’re, You’re Ana, aren’t you. Fareeha’s mother?” You asked as you brought her a tray of tea and snacks. She avoided your gaze and nodded. You wanted to point out that she was supposed to be dead for at least five years now. You wanted to point out that Fareeha had mourned her extensively. You wanted to point out how once a year on Ana’s birthday Fareeha went to her grave and left gifts and told stories. How she was still mourning. But you didn’t. Ana looked so tired, and this was supposed to be the Amari residence. The Amari home. Her home.

“It’s good to meet you Ana. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen making dinner.” You said. She didn’t answer. You wondered if she was still going to be there when you were done. Would she leave her friend behind? Was he a friend? If Ana Amari was alive and drinking tea in your living room then who was that in your guest room? What other ghost had you invited in.

“Is she happy?” Ana appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with her tea.

“Seems so, but, you should ask her yourself. I think she’d really like to see you.” You thought you saw grief cross Ana’s face. Years of pain that you couldn’t understand. But you knew how much Fareeha loved her mother, how much it would mean to her to see Ana alive and well and in your living room. It would hurt, yes. But the relief would be strong too. Ana looked just as unsure as you did, like she wanted to sink into her tea and disappear.

And the doorbell rang. You felt fear rise up again, stinging your spine as you went to answer the door again. You were swept up in a pair of warm arms and a flurry of kisses.

“I missed you so much sweetheart.” She hummed, hiding her face in the crook of your neck. You let yourself just hold her and relax. She was home. She was home and she was safe and in your arms again. Everything was okay. Then you took a breath and slipped from her arms, checking the living room. Ana was still there. She looked ready to bolt, but she was still there.

“Fareeha, we have a visitor.”

“Oh, who’s-” Fareeha went quiet, her mouth open in shock. You slipped one arm around her waist and took her hand in the other. You didn’t know whether to comfort her or simply guide her through the reality of her mother being very much alive.

“Hello, Fareeha. I- I’ve… Your spouse is nice.” Ana stumbled over her words, trying to look anywhere except the confused and upset face of her daughter. For a moment you weren’t sure what was going to happen. You were prepared for screaming. Shouting. For chasing after your wife as she stormed out of the room. But to your relief Fareeha just quietly approached Ana and hugged her tight.

“Welcome home.” Fareeha murmured. You smiled, slipping away to allow the two a moment to just dwell in the moment. Your home felt full. Tired and tender and with wounds still very much raw and exposed. But it was still… nice in a way. A bigger family.

That sounded good.


	27. Oh You're Gonna Go To Bed (Pharmercy x Reader)

You were passionate about medical sciences. It was your life. And working with Angela Ziegler was a dream come true. You never would have thought you could catch her attention, but within a week of your interview with her you had a job. You were technically her top assistant. The majority of your tasks had been to aid her in further medical research. But then. Then Overwatch happened. Or well, technically it didn’t. Technically, the two of you had moved to a private research lab. Which just happened to be in Spain. In an old Overwatch watchpoint. That most certainly was not the headquarters of a revitalized Overwatch.

You still had some funding, from research grants given to both you and Ziegler. Enough to keep your ‘research’ going on Ziegler’s Caduceus and your own Oracle projects. Ziegler’s staff was still one of the most beautiful pieces of medical science that you’d ever seen. And her experiences with it had done much to shape your own awareness of how the world might use your Oracle technology.

Your system quickly scanned and pinpointed weaknesses in your patient’s system, allowing for custom tailored care to their individual needs. It didn’t take much to realize how a military organization might want to use it. Didn’t take much for Winston to realize how to use it. Like Ziegler, you bent your morales to do good. While you preferred to identify the medical needs of the team it was still useful to be able to highlight weak spots in the enemy. After rigging up turrets to deploy biotic healing tethers and learning to use a pistol you took surprisingly well to the field. You never thought of yourself as a soldier. Never thought it would be this easy for you.

Sometimes that scares you.

When it does you bring your fears to Dr. Ziegler. She assures you that you are every bit the kind, caring doctor she knew when she first met you. You always leave her feeling calm and relieved. You are still good. Fighting for what’s right hasn’t changed you.

Her girlfriend, Fareeha, makes you feel like you’ve always been meant to fight. She’s a true soldier type. Strong, kind, protective. You’ve never felt safer than you do at her side. Getting your biotic turrets set up in places that benefit her can be difficult but the smile and thanks she gives you makes it worth it. She compliments your aim, your dedication.

The two of them are going to kill you.

You didn’t know when you first started feeling the glitter of affection for them. Was it when you were working late nights with Ziegler, splitting a pot of coffee between you while shuffling through piles of paper and stress? Was it when you were showing Fareeha the hot spots on an enemy omnic, the two of you disabling it in record time? Was it when the two of them dragged you from your desk and made you watch a movie, stuck between the two of them with an oversized bowl of popcorn on your lap?

The glitter became a glow became love. You were in love, with a pair of people who were already happily in love with each other. It was ridiculous, and a bit of a mistake on your part. This is something that would only, could only, come to hurt you. There wasn’t much you could do about it, other than desperately attempt to pretend the feelings away. Ignore them in the back of your mind and concentrate on your work.

Your gear had sustained a bit of damage in your last outing. Not enough to hurt the mechanics but you still took the time to go over every single part. Night had sprung up on you and you just, kept going. Sleep could come later. Sleep could always come later. You absently reached out with your spare hand while examining some wiring, reaching for your hopefully still warm cup of coffee. You didn’t find it but you did find warmth in the form of another hand catching yours.

Zeigler chuckled at you, shaking her head with a cluck. “I thought we agreed only late nights when we’re working together.”

“Sorry Angela, I just wanted to finish these repairs. It’s not that late is it?” You waited for her to remove her hand. She didn’t.

“It’s 1 in the morning.” Fareeha appeared behind Ziegler, resting her chin on one of Ziegler’s shoulders.

“Oh.” That was, much later than you anticipated. Still. You had so much to do. Surely an all-nighter couldn’t be too harmful. You knew it could be. Medically. But you would simply get extra sleep the next night. Possibly.

“Come on then. Let’s go to bed.” Fareeha yawned. You gave a little wave with your free hand and tried to turn back to your work. But Ziegler still hand your hand in hers. Her skin was so soft and so warm. And this is not what you needed. You also didn’t need Fareeha scooping you out of your chair and draping you over her shoulder. Sure that’s what it took for Ziegler to let go but it wasn’t a better scenario.

“Um…”

“If you don’t get any sleep tonight how will you be ready for our date tomorrow?” Ziegler smiled up at you. You squinted at her, wondering if you were really that exhausted or if she was making no sense.

“…uh… I… um. What?” You blinked slowly and tried to put the puzzle pieces together. It was not working. You were so, so tired. You wanted some coffee. You weren’t getting coffee. Clearly. But you wanted some.

“You, Angela and I. We’re going to spend the afternoon together. A picnic, and some time on the beach.” Fareeha answered, turning the corner towards the residential hall.

“We? Me?” The more you talked the less your argument for staying up held water. You were going to bed whether you liked it or not.

“Of course you.” Fareeha set you down outside your door, taking one of your hands and gently kissing it.

“We were talking a few weeks ago and realized we both had feelings for you. Then it wasn’t hard to see how you felt. You aren’t very subtle.” Ziegler… Angela? stepped away, slipping her hand into Fareeha’s. “If you don’t, want to go with us-”

“No! I mean. Yes. I mean. I’ll go.” You stammer. You thought you were being more than subtle. Damnit.

“Wonderful! I told you it would be yes Fareeha.” Angela beamed. She leaned forward to give you a quick kiss on the cheek before whispering in your ear.

“Go to sleep before I get Ana.”

“Did you just threaten our date with my mother?” Fareeha asked with a raise of her eyebrow. You tensed, spinning to put the code into your door. You did not want to get hit with a sleep dart. Again. It hurt. And then you dropped onto the floor and got bruises everywhere.

“Good Night!” You called, slipping through your door. You managed a glimpse of the warm smiles sent your way as you disappeared into your room. They were both smiling at you. For you. They both liked you. Good night indeed.


	28. Missing Snow (Soldier 76 x Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the following drabbles were written pre-Bastet.

You loved snow. It was so beautiful. Even when it was at its worst, coating your house, piled up on your car so thick that it took you an hour just to dig your way to the car itself. It was still pretty. You missed it since you joined Overwatch.

It didn’t snow in Gibraltar. Rained a bit. Got kinda windy. But it didn’t snow. Which was great for being able to open doors and exist outside. It just didn’t have that sense of magic or wonder. You didn’t mention it to your friends. You were part of an organization whose discoveries and creations offered plenty of wonder. You saw the impossible every day. Helped make the impossible. You shouldn’t be so delighted by snow or miss it so much.

The base was quiet. Most of the agents were out in the field or locked into their workshops. It was a lucky day off for you and there you were, spending it in the rec room, shaking a snow globe in your hands. You didn’t even realize 76 was in the room until he sat next to you. He was wearing a thin sweater with the ugliest print you’d ever seen. You were jealous. It took skill, luck, and hours of time to find a sweater so ugly that it circled right back into wonderful. You were going to steal it. And wear it right in front of him. It would be hilarious.

“Wish it snowed here.” 76 mumbled.

“huh?”

He pointed to your snow globe. “It doesn’t snow here. Haven’t seen snow in a while. Never liked having to shovel it but still. Miss seeing it fall.”

“Right?! I know it sucks living in snow but man it’s nice to look at. Especially when it’s real cold, fire burning in the fireplace, cuddled up under a warm blanket. Makes winter, winter. This is like fall.” You sigh.

There was a moment of silence while you just watched the little snowglobe spin. It wasn’t as though it wasn’t cold. It just wasn’t frigid. At worst it was a mild chill. You barely needed a coat when you when outdoors.

“Could still cuddle.” 76 remarked casually. You looked over at him with a raised eyebrow. It was unfortunate that he wore that mask everywhere. You would pay a lot of favors to read his expressions just once. He lifted his arm and curled it around your shoulders, pulling you close to his side. His head rested on top of yours. It was nice. Unexpected, but nice. You leaned into him and let your eyes flutter closed.

“I came looking for you to talk about… things.” 76 murmured against your hair.

“Snow?”

“… us.”

You tilt your head to look up at him in surprise. “There’s an us?”

“I’d like there to be.”

The words stay in the air, slowly drifting with the slight shifting breeze from the vents. You look at his mask, wondering what his face is saying. You reach up, fingers searching for the buttons holding it to his face. His hand joins yours, letting the mask fall into your hands. His face is scarred. Rough. Looking at you with as much tenderness as he can. There’s something familiar about him. But you don’t press it. You lift yourself up and brush your lips against his.

“Me too.”


	29. Golf Clubs (Soldier 76 x Reader)

Beating someone to death with a golf club was not the behavior of heroes. It was barely the behavior of criminals. It was really the behavior of someone who was really desperate but didn’t have access to any other weapons. But you did. You had a revolver on your hip. And yet, there you go. Killing someone with a golf club. It’s pretty concerning but right now you don’t have the time or the interest in doing that soul searching. You can do it later. Maybe with that omnic who made Genji Shimada calm down. You didn’t even think that was possible. But who are you to question anything.

They’re pretty dead and you’re still swinging the club. It’s a problem. You’re getting increasingly upset with the situation. Eventually you’ll have to stop. You’re going to get tired, or hungry, or realize that you were heavily coated in blood and that you couldn’t return to base looking like this.

Base.

You didn’t even want to go back. You didn’t want to be a hero. You didn’t want to be a soldier. You wanted to run a gardening center and sell people tiny tomato plants so they didn’t have to start from seeds. But that didn’t fucking work out. Trauma after trauma after trauma, none of which you ever dealt with, and that’s why you’re here. In a penthouse apartment. Wordlessly smacking a corpse into paste.

At some point a man joins you in the apartment and, contrary to what you expected, he doesn’t stop you. He grabs something from the fridge, sits in a chair, and lets you continue to work out your years of disregarded rage and pain. Whether this is the right move or not doesn’t matter. He’s there, staying, and not judging. You need that.

When you finally stop, when you finally drop the blood covered bent golf club onto the floor, Soldier 76 stands up and just puts his hand on your back. He doesn’t say a word. He’s just there. Without comment; unconditional companion ship. You didn’t ask and yet he still came. You’re crying, not sure when that started to happen, and you look over your shoulder at the thin red line on his mask.

“I didn’t mean to answer the call.”

“I know.” His voice, so rough, makes the tears fall faster. He doesn’t sound soft, you’re not sure he could, but he doesn’t sound harsh either.

“I lost… I lost Jack because of Overwatch. I didn’t want to go back. But I got the message and I just. I didn’t mean to come.” You can’t see clearly through your tears. There’s no response for a while, and then the hand on your back turns you fully towards him. 76 wraps you in a firm hug. A safe hug. You sob into the leather, until you feel too weary to keep crying.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I’m not going to lose anyone else without a fight.” Besides, you worked out the kinks with the whole situation. By beating a man to death with a golf club. It got you the information you needed. And you did release a bunch of corrupt financial documents to the web. So that was good. Bloody. A bit messed up. And you did not, at all feel better. But it happened so.

76 stroked your face, wiping some of the blood off your cheek. “Come on.”

He took your hand, leading you away from the office with the corpse puddle in it and towards the bathroom. He turned on the shower, leaving you when the water was warm enough for you to step in, clothes and all. There was so much blood. and chunks. You leaned out to the toilet, throwing up until you couldn’t anymore. You threw off your clothes and armor, hiding behind the shower curtain and crying some more. There was shuffling beyond the curtain, the sound of the toilet flushing and the sink turning on. When you felt like you were blood free, not clean that ship has sailed, you stepped out. There was a fresh set of clothes that definitely didn’t belong to you. You put them on anyway.

76 was waiting for you, wiping your armor with a towel. He pat the mattress next to him and you sat. Watched him finish tidying your gear for you. Watched him set it aside and turn to you. He gently, so gently, brushed his fingers through your hair.

“Do you feel better?” He asked. You shook your head and he nodded. You blinked and you were in his arms again, resting your head against him while he stroked your back. You couldn’t sit there forever. You didn’t have that kind of time. But you also couldn’t move. He didn’t ask you to move. He just kept soothing you until you started to feel human again. You were horrified by your actions. And yet, not. Death was always part of the business, even at the best of times. Perhaps just not so, gruesome. Or with a golf club. That was weird.

“We should probably go.” Your voice sounds normal again. That’s… probably good.

“Alright.” 76 pulls you up, helps you get your armor back on. He keeps the revolver when your hand shakes too hard to put the holster back onto your hip. His hand is at your back, out the door and down the stairs. Down the dark empty streets towards the rendezvous point.

“…Thank you.” You were so tired.

“I’ll always- I’ll be here for you when you need me. I owe you that much.” 76’s thumb rubbed circles through your shirt. You had questions. How he knew you were there, how he knew you needed him. Why he owed you. But you couldn’t ask. Not yet. You gave him a weary smile and leaned against him, enjoying the comfort while you had it. You knew all too well how quickly good men could die.


	30. Camping Sucks (Soldier 76 x Reader)

You hate camping.

You fucking hate camping.

You hate the dirt. You hate the bugs. You hate the sound of fucking raccoons and their godforsaken tiny ass human hands with fucked up little claws on them. Raccoons were nightmare creatures sent to torture mankind for their sins. Raccoons are what demons really fucking looking like. Monstrous little things trying to pull you in with their cute faces and then they touch you with their Tiny. Soft. Humanoid. Hands.

Camping was bullshit.

Having to camp with Soldier 76 didn’t fucking help. It wasn’t that you hated him. He was an alright guy. A little uptight. But he was also, kind of fucking hot. That voice. There are things you would like that voice to say and none of them are suited for general audiences. But Soldier 76 hates you. Which really puts a whole damper on a situation that really didn’t need any dampening. It was unnecessary. The dampness is already there. Things already suck. There’s no need. to add more suck. To the fucking. sucky. Situation.

You’re technically doing a stakeout of a remote compound that may or may not belong to Talon. You weren’t listening to the briefing. You never really do. You listen just enough to know what you’re supposed to be doing and if there’s someone who might kill you and then you go on mental adventures to a mystical land where all your favorite food is instantly available and Soldier 76 has sworn off shirts.

“I miss when stakeouts meant that someone could still go get some horribly greasy food to distract from the complete mind-numbing pain that is standing still for hours staring at someone.” You mutter.

“You seem to stare at me just fine.” 76 replied. You hoped he mistook your blush from being fucking cold in the fucking woods and flipped him off. Winston said to work with him not be nice to him. You tried being nice to him. That just back-fired. At least when you’re being rude right back it justifies his hate. Even if it doesn’t and you still don’t know what is problem is. At first, you thought it had to do with the ethics of your weaponry. Electrical induced hallucinations and confusion were better than outright murder but also, mildly fucked up if over applied or applied to the wrong person. But enough missions with him ordering you to deploy it made you think that wasn’t the issue.

“…Could you let me know what I did to make you so angry with me?”

The question almost startled you off the frigid, dew covered rock you’d been using as a chair. You looked at him, eyes wide and brow furrowed.

“What?”

“You used to seem, okay around me. Then all of a sudden you became aggressive. I’m not saying you have to like me. But if I’d like to know what made you start hating me.” 76 wasn’t looking at you. His focus on the compound was unshakeable.

“You hated me first what did you think was gonna happen.” You try to play it off cool but your dislike of being in the woods combined with your annoyance with the question and put more bite into your words.

“Who said I hated you? I don’t-” 76 turned to you. “I don’t hate you.”

“Oh, and this is you being warm and cuddly.” You snorted. A silence fell between you and you were just fine with that. Okay maybe you weren’t fine with it. A part of you wanted to avoid any emotional conversation when you were already having trouble focusing. Another part of you wanted to talk it out. Use the rare opportunity of being completely alone to figure out what was going on. But that part was a coward. So you just watched the compound, even as 76 got up to pull a few heat packs out of the supply bags. You couldn’t have a fire on a covert observation mission.

“You’re right. I haven’t been… I’m not good at friendly.” He offered you two of the packs. You hestiated but took them, slipping each one into your gloves and sighing in relief.

“Sorry about the staring.” You mutter.

“It’s alright. I stare back, you just can’t tell.”

You look over at him and he taps his mask. And somehow, you know, in your fucking soul, he’s smirking. You can feel it. You can sense it in the wind. Great Mother Earth is calling from the core of her polluted body to beam this message right to your brain.

“So are you saying you think I’m attractive, Soldier 76.”

“Didn’t say that.”

You snorted, turning back to continue your exciting assignment of ‘stare at buildings’.

“Maybe I should say it.” He remarked, as though he was commenting on the weather. You gave him the dryest look you could and uncorked your canteen. The fucker laughed. Actually laughed. A rough sound that made you wonder how long it had been since he’d smiled.

“Sorry, sorry. Are we not there yet?” 76 asked. You tilted your head and then shrugged.

“Hmmm, maybe, maybe not. We’re going to be here for a while. I’m sure you can come up with a good enough way to tell me I’m hot.” You smile as you take a drink. “If you aren’t as bad at flirting as you are at being friendly, that is.”

76 chuckled again, leaning closer to you and murmuring in a low voice. “Oh, I’m plenty good at flirting. How creative do you want me to get?”

“I hope you’re ready to finish this stakeout by yourself because you just fucked the rest of my concentration. and I swear to Everything if you make a single joke about what you have or will fuck then you will be very disappointed when we get back to base.” You sigh, rubbing your temples.

“…So if I stay quiet…”

“No if, shut up. No more talking.”

76 laughed again. You hate camping. Like this man. Hate camping.


	31. Blame it on the Cows (Soldier 76 x Reader)

Some people need to die. It’s just a fact of life. There are people who are in the way and they need to stop being in the way. Sometimes they’re good people and that’s unfortunate. But most of the time, they are bad people. Your job is simple. Find them. And kill them. Sometimes, rarely, you have to get some information out of them first. And that’s also unfortunate. And Gross! Although, either way, it’s pretty gross. Humans rarely die in a way that isn’t gross.

It’s an average night of stabbing people for fun and profit. Mostly profit. It’s not very fun. There’s a lot of crying and tears and snot and it’s pretty nasty. High levels of nasty. This guy was in the trafficking business, which was bad enough on its own, but he had recently attempted to take the daughter of one of the local kingpins. Huge mistake. Local Kingpin had money. Local Kingpin knew the number to a good assassin. Local Kingpin paid good assassin a significant amount of money to torture this guy to death. So you did. You really hate when people ask you to cut off fingers. It’s a lot harder than it sounds. Bolt cutters are difficult.

It takes you a good four hours to whittle him down to nothing but mindless dry groaning. A few more stabs and then he was just dead. Not bad for a day’s work. Or, it was. Morally. Money wise. Not bad. You pulled your knife out of him one last time, pausing when a man with a gun burst through the door.

“Oh… Hey… Um. This is not what it looks like.” You said quickly. He was a tall man, older, with white hair and a weird mask on his face. His rifle immediately pointed at you.

“Really. Because it looks like you killed my target.” Oh he sounded angry. Who hired more than one assassin? You specifically stated in your contract that you didn’t do races. Damnit, now you had to kill someone else. Your work day just doubled.

“I mean. A lot of things are deadly! A lot of things could have caused this death. Wasps. Spiders. Falling vending machines. Cows! Do you know how many people are killed by cows every year? The world is a dangerous place!” You speak quickly, waving your hands in front of you. Wondering if you could talk him into fucking off if you offered a cut of the pay.

“That’s…” He lowered the rifle slightly. “You’re covered in blood. Holding a bloody knife. Next to his bloody corpse.”

“Pure coincidence, check out the cows.”

The man’s silence made you uncomfortable. Actually the whole situation made you uncomfortable. The blood was cooling and now you were becoming cold and sticky and it was going to dry eventually and then you would be cold and flakey and flakey blood is disgusting because it gets Everywhere. Like sand. Except even grosser. Made your skin crawl.

“Why are you here. Who sent you.” The man brought the rifle back up. You squeaked. Today was not the day to die. People owed you money.

“Local crime guy. This guy,” You motioned to the corpse, “was pulling human trafficking. In this town, that’s not okay. So, you know. Stabby. Except again, it wasn’t me. If not cows, perhaps the vending machines? You know how people get over the coke vs pepsi debate. I myself prefer Dr. Pepper, but I’m a monster. Metaphorically. About soda, specifically. Not. You know. Morally.”

“You realize I’m not buying anything you’re saying right.” The rifle was back down. Sweet.

“Yeah but I wanted to see how long I could keep going. Can I leave. Or does someone also owe you money now? What’s the situation I would like to shower.” You tucked the knife into the small bag you brought with you, tossing it over your shoulder. It was a good knife. You were going to clean it. Use it to go fishing. For, actual fish. Maybe. Probably not. You were probably going to stab someone else with it.

“I can’t say he didn’t deserve to die.” The man grumbled. “… so what. You’re the town’s vigilante assassin?”

No. “Yes.”

“… How useful are you in a combat situation.” Oh?

“This guy had like 8 guards on him. They too encountered the cows. Poor souls.” They also encountered sleeping gas and being driven off a bridge in a truck. Those cows. They are diabolical.

The man walked up to the corpse, examining it. “Can you work without butchering someone like this? This is. excessive.”

“I generally prefer not to. I don’t enjoy being covered in blood. I look like the ugly extra that dies after finding the hot people killed in a horror movie. The not-ugly but not-hot one that survives at the end finds my corpse twisted up like a pretzel.” You motioned with your arms to try to convey the pretzel twist.

“Sure you’re not the hot one that dies first?”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Question. Are you going to offer me a job because I’m hot.”

“No.” Yes.

“I’m going to ask for your services just once. To deal with a problem.” He gave a small chuckle. “Look who’s hiring on the assassin now.”

“Who said I’d work for you?” You ask, crossing your arms. The man looked at you, then at his rifle, then back at you.

“… To be honest, I was going to say yes regardless. Because you called me hot. And I really like the silver hair. Got any scars? Tattoos?” You wiggled your eyebrows at him. He just scoffed and motioned towards the door.

“Go. Meet me at the park tomorrow. I’ll find you there.”

You shrugged, pleased to be getting out of this with your life. And your money. You are going to get your money from the kingpin. You doubted this guy was going to be paying you much for whatever he wanted but. Hey. Hot voice. Hot hair.

“… Scars.” You hear muttered softly behind you. You turn around and wink.

“Score.”

It probably would’ve been a lot more effective if you weren’t covered in someone’s blood, you gross, gross individual. Shower time. Forever. Or, well. For the night. Maybe tomorrow night too if you played your cards right. Hmmm.


	32. Dust to Dust and all that (Hanzo x Reader)

Overwatch was the greatest thing to ever happen to you. You weren’t the biggest weirdo in the room anymore. It was magical. There was a talking monkey. A flying omnic. A cowboy. Being able to create temporary, instable duplicates of yourself was no longer the biggest ‘what the fuck’ available. There were now other items on the menu. A full buffet of messed up. It was great.

Most of your missions were done alone. Because technically you were your own team. Which was fine with you. You were awkward at best, socially terrified at worst. You were still working your way through meeting everyone else in the organization. Dodging the medical providers still. The medical providers and the medical providers’ cyborg boyfriends who would come out of fucking nowhere and drag you to the medical wing like a cat on the way to a vet surgery. Your duplicates wouldn’t fool him forever. He was going to find you. You were going to get a check up.

Your current teammate was actually his brother. Hanzo was such a quiet man. You didn’t know what to think of him at first. Everyone else didn’t like him for reasons that no one told you. But he was just a dude. With a bow. So you hung out with him. Sat with him in the mess hall, trained with him in the arena. You tried to meditate with him but you sucked at that. But despite all of that time together you had never actually spoken. Not once. Not even a little. It didn’t mean that you didn’t like him. You thought he was great. Pretty attractive too. A friend. Just a silent friend. You don’t need to talk to someone to like them.

You might like him.

A lot.

But that’s irrelevant. Because you have a mission to do. and you are not going to fuck it up. It is not going to get weird. It’s gonna be great. Gonna be fun. Gonna be fine. Nothing to worry about. You stared at yourself in the mirror, hyping yourself up.

“Look at me, I believe in you. You can do this.” You give yourself your best smile.

“Are you… talking to yourself. In a mirror.”

Oh.

Hanzo was standing in the doorway between your rooms with one eyebrow raised and his arms crossed. The first thing he’s ever said to you and it’s because he caught you doing something weird. Awesome. You looked between him and the mirror and shook your head.

“No.”

“Oh really.”

“…y…yeah. I’m talking to my clone.” You pushed your ability, a duplicate peeling off your body in a sensation that makes you feel very sympathetic to garlics getting skinned. Your duplicate waved, then turned to you.

“Anyway, you can do it Split!” “Thanks Split, you’re the best.” “Aw, you’re the best Split.” “C'mere you.” Hugging your clone does in fact feel as weird as one might expect. It’s awful. You push your clone to disappear, watching an ash like dust fall onto the floor.

“Yeah that’s gross.” You mutter. To your surprise Hanzo laughs. Laughs with his face.

“Come, let’s do our job. You can pick where we eat afterwards.” Hanzo guides you out the door.

“You still want to eat after seeing the me-dust. I don’t even want to eat after seeing the me-dust and I’m always making it.” You shudder. “How do you stand that.”

“Your presence could never bother me, dust or no.” He says it so calmly, so matter of factly. You gaze at his back with a sense of wonder and appreciation. As if you could possibly like him more than you already did.


	33. Punishment (Hanzo x Reader)

You don’t know who this man is. He’s slightly older than you, with a nose piercing, and the sides of his head are shaved, and he has the same tired look in his eyes that you have. He’s hot, unquestionably, that’s why you sat at his little corner table. The glares he was giving the room did nothing to chase you away and once you were already there he seemed to give up on keeping you out.

Neither of you spoke at first. You just wanted a place to sit, and he was busy pretending you didn’t exist. The two of you just drank, even as the bar began to slow down and people trickled out. One of the bartenders came to your table to ask you to leave when you fixed them with your gaze. You ordered them to bring the two of you a few of their best bottles of whatever was good, and then to go ahead like the two of you weren’t there. A dreamy glaze fell over their eyes and they nodded, doing as you said. You frowned at the look the mystery man gave you and took another drink of your… whiskey? maybe?

“Mind your own business.” You muttered.

And he did. Even when you again ordered the manager to leave the lights on and let you be. You set a stack of cash on the bar counter to pay before you got too drunk to find your own wallet and resumed your epic quest to drown yourself miles from the ocean.

“… Perhaps you should slow down.” The man spoke, after a night of silence between the two of you. You sighed and glared at him.

“Perhaps you should shut up.” You snarl, pouring down another cup of whiskey down your throat. It stopped burning a few hours ago but there was still a soft vague warmth. It did nothing to fix the chill running through your skin but at least you were putting in an effort. There’s silence for a few more seconds before you find a bottle of water pushed in front of you.

“Drink this. And then you can keep punishing yourself.” He said, a bottle of his own in your hand.

“Who said I’m punishing myself?” You hiss despite grabbing your water and cracking it open.

He eyed you and shrugged. “Birds of a feather.”

“Oh.” You look away and down the water. It tastes really good actually. Refreshing. You are so, so fucking drunk right now. You look at him and sigh.

“What are you punishing yourself for?” You ask. He frowns at you and you frown right back.

“You can’t call me out and then go back to drinking, asshole. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine and all that fucking bullshit gross people say before they send you their genitals via text.”

To your surprise, you make him laugh. He pours himself another glass and sighs. “I thought I murdered my younger brother in cold blood. Turns out I only mutilated him.”

“I told my stepfather to drive himself off a cliff and he took the rest of the family with him.” You stare blankly at the bottles, your lips twitching when he slides a new glass your way too.

“I loved my brother. He was a mess, and out of control, and he was going to destroy himself just fine on this own. But I loved him. And then I killed him.”

“My siblings were just kids. They were half-siblings. Stepfather’s kids. Not the best but I didn’t hold a grudge. They were only repeating what their father told them.”

“He’s got a, an omnic body I suppose. I don’t know how much of his original body is left. Either way. He suffered by my hands.”

“I didn’t think he’d actually do it. I didn’t realize what I could do just yet. It took me a few years to realize just what I was capable of.”

There’s silence again, but neither of you are really drinking. You’re just sitting and realizing that wow. You found someone just as fucked up as you are. Maybe. You’re pretty fucked up. It’s a high bar. You don’t know this man. He could have done a whole lot worse than stabbing his brother a few times. But you know damn well your family wasn’t the last group you’ve sent to their deaths.

So when he stands up and offers you his hand, you take it. You follow him out of the bar, and keep going along with him right down his ‘road to redemption’. Whether you believe you can be redeemed or not. You’re with him.


	34. Insecurities (Hanzo x Reader)

Everyone has moments of insecurity. You’re no different. Despite everything you’ve done and everything you’re still doing, you have your moments. They come for you, when you’re alone, when you’re not suspecting them, when there’s nothing for you to do to make them stop. They reach around you and drag you down into their depths and whisper into your ear. This is one of those nights. You recline on your bed with a pile of pillows behind you, your holoscreen on playing some movie you’ve seen a million times. Your own thoughts strangling the breath out of you as you try so desperately to relax.

There is a parade of the usual suspects. You’re not good enough, snapped in your own anger and rage. You don’t try hard enough, groaned in your own disappointment and regret. You cannot fix your faults, whispered in your own tearful despair. Other more unique retorts slip in and out of your mind. That you are alone. That your lover could easily find someone better. That he should. They flutter at the edge of your vision, venomous butterflies. So bloated with their own twisted honey poison.

It hurts. And keeps you locked down. You couldn’t leave for help even if you wanted to. Pride binds you just as much as the whispers.

When Hanzo walks in, fresh from a mission and clearly worn down and tired, he takes just one look at you and seems to understand. He neatly puts his gear away, slips into the bathroom to shower and put on fresh clothes. He brings with him one of the candles from the bathroom. Your favorite. It smells like peonies. He lights it on the nightstand and gently lifts you off the bed. He settles down with you in his lap, your head resting on his shoulder, his face pressed against your hair. He is warm.

Hanzo doesn’t speak at first. He quietly runs his fingers through your hair, lets his other hand rest around your waist. He breathes through your hair with his lips hovering above you. His presence calms the sporadic voices. The interlopers. They fade under the strength of his presence. Under the scent of his soap. The feel of his fingers in your hair. They are gone, and he is there. With you. He loves you, and you love him. You remember that.

The parade clings. It wraps around your ankles like seaweed. The sea is dark and thick and you are so tantalizingly close to the surface and still the murmuring darkness holds fast. Threatens to keep the chill in your bones and the vibrating needles in your skin. You try to push them down. Try to focus on him. You are not alone. You are not.

Hanzo kisses the side of your head and moves his free hand from your waist to interlock with your fingers. He murmurs into your ear. Soft. He is so soft with you, when you get like this.

“Speak to me, love.” He asks, not demands, but the question is not a question. It is a life-line. A floating ring in the waves. You hold onto it with fragile arms and take a fragile breath.

“Just the usual. It’ll pass.” You close your eyes. It will pass. It always passes. When you’re in the thick of it all you can see is the shadow stretching out around you. Inescapable. But that’s not the truth. You know it. Sometimes you need a little help to remember. Sometimes Hanzo needs a little help to remember. You’re there for each other, keeping both of your heads above water.

“I am here. Breathe with me.” Hanzo whispers, another kiss feather light against temple. He twists himself to kiss your face until you turn and his lips touch yours. Gentle. But firm. Present. A wordless affirmation. You will be okay. You are here, and he is with you. You are not alone. The shadows ebb and fade away. You feel the light breeze of the air vents circulating through your room. The soft cotton of your blankets pulled over the two of you. His arms around your shoulders, your anchor in the storm.

“Thank you Hanzo.” You smile, a small turn of your lips, kissing him again. The worry in Hanzo’s eyes disappears. Relief and a love like a hearth fire takes their place. He kisses you back, shifts his lips to cover your face in little affectionate brushes. You giggle and he smiles, returning his lips to yours again.

“Any time, Love.”


	35. Untitled Drabble (Mei x Reader)

It hadn’t been a difficult decision to choose Overwatch over Talon. For starters, Overwatch didn’t start their sales pitch by breaking into your fucking house. That was creepy. It was your own fault for not locking up but still. Not the best way to make a good impression. When Overwatch came to you to transform your skills as a thief into skills as an agent you went with it. Why not? The leader was a talking gorilla. That was amazing.

It was an all around good job. You still got to steal shit. Sorta. Mostly from Talon. Which was so satisfying. Shows ‘em right for breaking into your house. Maybe now they’ll learn. There was just one, tiny problem. Her name was Mei. She was so cute you wanted to punch yourself in the face. On the regular.

It didn’t help that the woman had a boundless sense of duty and optimism. That she was brilliant and dedicated. Kind and courageous. Absolutely wonderful in every single way. She made your heart skip a beat every time you saw her, made you lightheaded and woozy. You wanted to impress her. But breaking into a building and running off with something wasn’t that impressive, especially not to a genius like Mei.

Every mission with her was awkward. Helping her break into an old Siberian ecopoint so she could collect the data out of it? Incredibly awkward. You’re not sure why. All of Overwatch knows you have sticky fingers. So it’s not like watching you pick a lot is going to ruin her opinion of you all of a sudden. No, what might ruin her probably low opinion of you is probably that someone, not naming names, forget to wear a proper coat. So someone, not naming names, is currently wearing too thin gloves in a shitty sweater trying to pick a lock. That someone is you. You are dying. You’ve never been more cold in your life.

The generator isn’t strong enough to start up the heat. You’re so disappointed. But Mei doesn’t seem to mind at all. She takes off her gloves and works with the computer like the cold doesn’t affect her at all. You try not to stare. This is awkward enough. So you shudder in the corner.

“Hey do you thi-” Mei turned to you, stopping as she took in your shaking. “Oh! If you’re so cold, why didn’t you say something? Come here.”

Mei took her discarded gloves, putting them over your hands. She drew you over to the computer and stood behind you. Mei gently wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her head against your shoulder as she resumes her work. You’re not sure if you’re warm because she’s cuddling with you or because you’re experiencing a terrifying full body flush. She’s so warm. She’s so soft.

“You’re so cute. I wish we could go on more missions together.” Mei murmured. It took you a few moments to realize what she was saying.

“… You think I’m cute?!”


	36. Eyeliner (Sombra x Reader)

To say that you’re a mess is an understatement. Between your barely functioning prosthetic arm, your multiple arrest warrants, your shitty emotional health, and the fact that you’re a fucking human power plant, you’re less a ‘mess’ and more of a 'world ending disaster’. You’re the meteor that fucked up the dinosaurs in human form. You’re that disease that killed the original breed of banana. You’re the glitter off a single greeting card that somehow infected the entire office and now everyone is finding it everywhere and no one can really understand how.

You are on a shitty 16-hour bus ride trying to get to a shitty town so you can try to restart your shitty life, again. And all you want right now. All. You fucking. Want.

Is to put on. Your god damn. Eyeliner.

Motherfucker. You keep shaking. And when you’re not shaking you’re letting little sparks of electricity come off your hand and melt your eyeliner and then you have to cut it down and start over again and you’re this close to eating your own arm. The uh, non-prosthetic one. Or hell, maybe the prosthetic one. Fuck it. Maybe your rage is that all-consuming. You curse as you wipe off another failed attempt. You aren’t giving this up. Too much shit has gone wrong in your life. This is not going to be another thing gone wrong. You’re going to walk off this bus with the best fucking eyeliner you’ve ever seen.

You immediately smeared it. So that’s great.

Another passenger sits next to you with a small laugh. She’s a woman, half her head shaved with these glowing purple lines attached to her scalp. She’s dressed head to toe in purple with eyes that dance with amusement.

“You’ve been trying to put on that eyeliner the entire bus ride, and you’re struggling. So I’m going to help you out.” She offered, taking the eyeliner from your hand. You want to argue but she’s kind of cute. And you are too tired from your endless rage to fight anyone right now. Plus her fucking eyeliner is perfect, the gorgeous asshole. She draws over your eye in precise strokes. Barely minutes go by before she sits back and nods. You glance into your mirror and find the best winged eyes you’ve ever worn.

“Thank you.” You say softly.

“No problem. Although if you wanted to do a favor for a favor, I’ve got something you might be interested in.” The woman leaned back with a small smile. Well that’s suspicious, thanks for being creepy, lady.

“Um… Like…what?”

“A job. One uniquely suited to your talents.” She reached out and trailed her finger across your cheek. Electricity bounced from your skin towards the wires in her glove. You think about what’s waiting for you at the end of this bus ride. A shitty grocery store job. A studio apartment that 'might’ have running water. That’s… that’s it. You look at her and then look away.

“Any benefits?”

“Better arm, for starters.”

“… You know what. Sounds good.” You shrug. Fuck it. Follow the cute woman wherever she’s going. “What’s your name?”

“Sombra.” She leaned in close to you, her lips brushing against your ear. “Welcome to Talon.”


	37. Warmth (Zarya x Reader)

You hate missions with Zarya. Not because you hate Zarya, rather it’s the opposite, but missions with her usually mean missions in Russia. And Russia has snow. Snow is cold. Snow is so fucking cold. Worse, it’s cold and wet. You hate being cold. Almost as much as you hate the snow itself. It was like sand’s evil twin. Got everywhere, and then it melted. And then you were cold and wet. Fucking snow.

Luckily your mission was done. Unluckily, Tracer was several hours out from picking you up. You groaned, turning to eye Zarya. She seemed perfectly comfortable. It wasn’t that much of a surprise, this was her homeland. She also spent a lot of time in the snow fighting. If anyone was used to it, it was her. She wasn’t even wearing her coat zipped up. It was open and loose, her gloves off and her shoes set to the side. She was perfectly content to relax in the little motel room you’d gotten as a field base.

She was so damn pretty. That face. Those arms. Her perfectly dyed hair how the fuck. You knew for a fact she did it herself. Witchcraft.

Zarya wasn’t paying attention to you. Her eyes were on the documents you’d recovered during the mission. You stared silently at her for a few minutes as an idea slowly clicked into place. She was warm. You were cold. You were clever. You could do math. You slowly stepped over to her, diving onto her lap and pulling her coat closed around you.

“What are you doing?” Zarya asked, an amused smile on her face.

“Hahahaha, I have come to steal your body heat.” You cackle.

“It is a warm day here.” She said slowly. Though she didn’t move to push you off. She just looked at you, one eyebrow raised. Her reading material was placed aside. Ignored in favor of you. Take that, paperwork.

“Not for my weak ass.” You retort. You aren’t moving now. This is your home. You’ll put up a calendar. Arrange for cable service. Get one of those subscription boxes that sends ingredients to your house so you can pretend you like to cook in order to impress Zarya who is already fully aware that you hate cooking. But you do it anyway.

Zarya laughed, wrapping her arms around you and holding you close. “You are not weak. But still, I’ll warm you anytime.”

“When you say shit like that it makes me weak. I’m too sappy Zarya. I'mma fall apart. And then what’ll you do.” You close your eyes, leaning back into her grasp. She’s so warm. So comfortable. You feel like nothing bad could ever happen when you’re with her.

“Kiss you until you pull yourself back together.” Zarya murmured, kissing the top of your head for emphasis. You sigh happily in response. Tracer can go ahead and take her damn time. You’re not in a rush to leave anymore.


	38. Evolution (Doomfist x Reader)

You’re in love with a bad, bad man. He wants to see the world tear itself apart like a pack of starving, vicious dogs. He wants to poison people’s minds and hearts. Crush compassion beneath his heal and watch the weak suffocate in their own fluids. See the great cities burn as people work themselves into an endless frenzy.

Only through Conflict do we Evolve.

Akande Ogundimu is in love with a monster. You’re inhuman. Born in a lab and built to kill, to terrorize. Your very blood is a toxic weapon, an acid that eats your enemies. You are a living, breathing nightmare. The kind of thing that children have nightmares about and adults pray doesn’t exist.

You are an evolution in weapon design.

There is hate in your heart. It consumed you, and when there was the slightest crack in the lab’s safeguards you struck. and struck. and struck. Even after they were dead, even after the poison took, even after there was nothing left but a pile of muck flecked with bone, you struck. You walked out of the empty, aching building dripping in blood and heaving rage soaked breaths. That’s how he found you. He took one look at your face, twisted into a snarl from a storybook, body hunched over a security guard whose face was molten and distorted, colored an unnatural gray. One look. And he smiled.

He told you that you were magnificent.

You do not care if Humanity evolves. You don’t care about humanity. But you care about this man. This man who can tear metal in half who handles you with such care. This man who is pushing people towards destruction but pushes you towards wholeness. This man who locks his allies in a room to die because they disappointed him.

This man, who surprises you with a room full of toys to take all your rage out on.

Akande looks at you and sees the future. He tells you, with his words in your ear, with his fingertips on your skin, with his lips on yours. A shining beacon. A wonder. How anything so fantastic could come from humans astounds him. You are the divine given flesh, he whispers. He wipes the blood away from your hands and cleans your wounds, feather-light kisses over every fingertip. He dresses you in the finest fabrics and drapes you in gems and precious metals. You are a treasure, his treasure.

You rarely interact with his, co-workers. One of them is a scientist, filthy thing, and you would gladly choke her with her own intestines if Akande didn’t find her useful. The others, he doesn’t trust. Not that he trusts her either. But she’s useful. She can make more like you. His eyes light up at the thought of more with your strength, your power. You hope he gets his wish. You hope he finds more joy. You will ensure it. This world will give your love what he wants or you will drown it in rot and ruin.

He dances with you in the moonlight. Tells you the stars are jealous of you. That soon, he will craft a world that is worthy of your presence. So soon. He holds you close, rests his face into the crook of your neck, and murmurs his promises.

You are in love with a bad, bad man. He makes you want to become something even worse than you already are. And you will.

Even monsters need to evolve.


	39. Clearing Your Mind (Genji x Reader)

You were a fucking genius. Your work history in biomedical engineering and neurochemistry was studded with enough accolades and accomplishments to write a book. You spent your free time volunteering for Overwatch applying your own inventions and studies to the field and helping save lives. You were brilliant.

And yet. For the fucking life of you. You could not meditate.

Sit still? Empty your mind? No, and no. You hadn’t been this frustrated in years. Every time you closed your eyes and tried to center yourself you started going off on tangents. A wider range for your neurotoxin. An adjustment for toxicity levels. Ways to help ease pain in your coworkers. Rude emails to send to a certain Oasis minister written in the most polite way possible. A sort of bless your heart situation. Eventually she was going to try and have you killed, but until then, you were having a good time.

It was easier to complain about being able to meditate than meditating itself. You sighed and stood up.

“I’m never going to get this right. I’ve been at it for days.” You shook your head and huffed. “I might as well just quit.”

Genji chuckled and reached out for your wrist, pulling you back down. “A sharp sword starts out as a hunk of metal, not an amazing weapon. Right now, with you are a hunk of metal. With more training and practice, you will become a sword.”

You stared at him with the dryest expression you could muster. “Genji I’m going to kick your ass for saying that.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Right now. Put ‘em up it’s go time.” You weren’t good at hand to hand combat either. But it was easier to punch someone than sit still and think about, mindfulness or whatever Genji was trying to talk to you about. Zenyatta was a little better at it but he had those glowing orb things. He was off helping Dr. Ziegler though. So it was just you and the cyborg. Who you were going to fist fight. Not really but you could try. You half heartedly swung at him, not surprised when he flips you onto your back and pins you.

“Hmmm. Perhaps you just need a good swordsmith.” Genji mused. Your frown deepened. He was not as funny as he thought he was. Even as he lifted one of his hands and pressed against the side of his head. There was a click…

Oh.

He had such a warm, gentle smile under his mask. Genji’s face was heavily scared but that didn’t stop the light from glinting across his eyes. He looked so… peaceful. You weren’t sure how else to describe it. You were speechless from him taking off his mask in the first place; seeing what his face looked like was a whole different story. He lowered his face until his forehead tapped against yours. You could feel the heat of his breath against your lips. He chuckled.

“Is your mind clear now?”

“mm hmm.” You mumble. Your mind feels submerged in the moment. A surprisingly calm despite your racing heart. Genji kisses you, the slightest brush of his lips against yours, the gentlest moment before moving off of you. He sits back down, patting the ground next to him.

“Try to hold onto that clarity. I’m here, I’ll help you.”

You sigh and sit next to him. You still don’t think meditating will do anything for you. But Genji’s warm presence gives you peace of mind. His hand reaches out to rest over yours. Yeah. You can give this mindfulness thing a try.


	40. Sparks (Genji x Reader)

You didn’t understand why Winston insisted on you and Genji doing missions together. At first, you were just confused. Genji was fast, and agile, and quiet. And you, while fast enough you suppose, were loud and conspicuous. Genji was a quiet breeze that swept in the storm clouds and you were quite literally the lightning that followed. Flash shouldn’t follow subtlety.

But Genji was so kind, and so gentle, and so encouraging. You became confused about other things. About Life. About Luck. About Love.

You tried really hard not to think about love.

You just failed. Genji was amazing. He looked at you and didn’t see a horrible mistake of nature or a monster waiting to destroy a town he saw, you. His friend. Someone to invite to watch movies with or play some games. Someone to train with and attempt to meditate with, just once. You were his friend and he was yours. Your very first friend. So it made sense, for just a few missions, that Winston paired the two of you together. Fast and Quiet. Loud and Flashy.

And then. Then the love happened. And it became confusing again. You were too close now, too connected. How could you be expected to concentrate when your head felt fuzzy and your heart was swimming in itself?

It was easy to begin to loathe going out on missions. Because Genji was almost consistently at your side despite the risks of being so close to so much electricity. Even when omnics were bringing a tunnel down on your heads, even when concrete and metal and dirt were raining down on you as you made your escape, he was there. Not leaving your side. So close that he caught you when you collapsed safe outside of the tunnel. Held you close and carried you to cover behind the trees. Your attackers had been defeated, narrowly, the few remaining taken out by their own tunnel collapse. You were safe from physical harm at least.

Genji wasn’t letting go. He was holding you, one hand stroking your back, the other buried in your hair. He was staring beyond you, in the direction of the tunnel. Tense. You knew that you should wiggle out of his grip. That it wasn’t a good idea to let yourself linger knowing how you felt about him.

But it was nice. You felt safe. So you didn’t move. You rested your head on his shoulder and listened. But there were no sounds, everything was safe. Everything was fine.

“Are you alright?” Genji doesn’t let you go. He leans just enough back that he can take a better look at your face.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Sorry, I think I threw myself out of there too fast. I’m fine though.” You stood up, reluctantly pulling yourself from Genji’s arms. You didn’t want to. You would rather stay there forever.

He pulled you back in, wrapping his arms back around you. “We will have to be more careful next time. I don’t want to push you past your limits. I can’t lose you.”

“Genji, I’m fine I promise. You won’t lose me. At least, not permanently. I try not to overshoot but you know, lightning.” You chuckle. Genji just shook his head slightly, shifting to sweep you up into his arms so he could carry you towards the rendezvous point. You sighed but rested your arms around his neck instead of arguing. A few more precious moments in his arms were worth the indignity of being carried. The two of you moved in silence, the forest gone still after the shock of the collapse. Until Genji stopped dead in his tracks and looked at you.

“Uh. Are you okay Genji?” You asked, worry steeping in your voice.

“You know I love you, right?”

You felt your breath catch in your throat. Your chest tightened. Your mouth hung open, shock stealing your words away. You weren’t sure you heard him right. Or heard him at all. Were you dreaming? You knew you weren’t dead, at least not to the collapse. You were fast. But he- you-

Genji sighed softly. “I do not expect you to return my feelings. I just, need you to be safe. That’s why I request you as a partner so often. If you are in danger I want to be there to protect you. Do you want me to put you down?”

“Don’t put me down.” You weren’t even sure when you decided to speak. You leaned up, touching his faceplate.

“I… Oh Genji I’m… I…” Words escaped you. When you really didn’t want them to escape you. You groaned and leaned against his chest, hiding your face against the cool metal of his armor. Genji loved you. Genji feared for you. Genji wanted you safe. And he was holding you. You clung tighter to him, small sparks leaping from your skin.

“Genji I’ve loved you for months now I’m just a god damn coward.” You reluctantly tilt your head back up to look at him, frowning at the sight of the electricity slipping from your arms onto him. You wiggled out of his grip, trying to shake the lightning from you.

“Mother fucker we are having a moment you stop this!” You shouted, the electricity on your arms growing as a result. This is fucking Bullshit. You were going to eat a tree. You heard a soft click but didn’t bother to turn and look while you shook your static covered arms. Genji spun you towards him, pressing soft lips to yours.

“I love your spark.”

You smiled softly, admiring the warmth in his eyes. He was scarred but smiling. There was kindness, acceptance. Love. There was love. You held his face in your hands, unable to stop your grin, pressing your lips back against his.

“Race to the plane? First person there gets as many kisses as they want.” You grin, stepping away and stretching your legs for a run. Genji chuckled and put his faceplate back on, immediately taking off before you had a chance to count down. You let him get a headstart, lightning blasting you forward.

Too far. You hit the plane. Technically you won but most of your kisses are on the large bruise on your face while Dr. Ziegler treated you for a concussion. At least you got your kisses though.


	41. Brushstrokes (Symmetra x Reader)

The world was so full of color, so many endless shades of swirling light. Beauty everywhere and ever changing. You captured just a fragment, the tiniest slice of existence, that you could preserve and share. The world is never the same place twice after all. It is your dream and purpose to show people that singular moment.

When you first saw her, you thought she outshined every piece in your gallery. You also thought you were hallucinating. She was so beautiful, so ethereal. She moved with the same sort of grace that the sunlight did when it filtered through leaves in the morning. Steady. Calm. Peaceful. You had never seen anyone so stunningly lovely and asked her if she wouldn’t mind letting you photograph her for your work.

She said no.

Satya did, however, agree to go out on a date with you. And then a second date. And a third date. And now you’re lounging in her office watching her work, basking in this one moment when the light from the window is hitting her cheek right where her hair hangs near her face in this one way. She looks peaceful and yet, focused. Not even you could tear her from her work and you don’t intend to.

You roll to your feet, lazily stretching towards the sky. That was enough sitting around for you. You needed… You needed paint. No, first, paper. A large roll of plain brown paper cut and set over the ground. Then you could put up your easel then canvas then… paints… acryllic? No no. Water color. This time, it needed to be water color. You quietly hummed as you set up your tools, unaware that you had gained some attention. The two of you were both so prone to focusing only on what was in front of you. Artists lost in their art.

“What are you painting today, hm?”

Her touch was light on your shoulder. Soft but reassuring. Satya gazed at the canvas in front of you already covered in a gentle gradient of blues and purples. At first you hadn’t been sure but now it was pretty clear. The night sky. A galaxy here, a meteor belt here, a scattering of sparkling stars…

“You.”

“I’m stars then?”

You’re tempted to dot her nose with the paint but you restrain yourself and dot the canvas instead. “You’re the whole sky.”

Satya’s quiet after that. A peaceful presence that accompanies you while you deposit paint onto canva, soothing you as you smooth each stroke just right. You’ve painted stars before but this one is different. They’re always different. A singular feeling of… well, this time joy. Love. Sparkling and spreading from horizon to horizon. Enveloping your entire world. You rinse your materials, watching the way Satya sways as she looks at your finished work.

“You’re done?”

“Yeah. I won’t title it Satya if you don’t want me to though.” You hum. “This one I think, will go in my room.”

“It will go in mine.” Satya slipped her arms around you, pulling you close and resting her head on your chest.

“It’s the same room!”

“Yes, but I do the decorating… I love your work.” She pulled herself from your arms and stood in front of the painting, leaning forward until she was almost touching the canvas. You fidgeted but trusted her. She would never harm your work.

“I… I don’t know if I can see myself the way you do, after everything I did for them.” Satya held herself and faced away from you. You gently returned her to your arms and rested your chin on her shoulder.

“But maybe… I might like a picture of us… for our office.” She craned her neck to catch your eyes. You grinned and picked her up, swirling her around the small workspace the two of you shared.

“Absolutely, Satya. Absolutely.”


	42. Snowfall (Mei x Reader)

Mei generally resembled the snow she was so familiar with. Beautiful and glimmering, the softest breath of fog against the glass, the crystalline warning of something that could be so sharp and deadly. But right now she was dressed like a vision one would see when they finally succumbed to the false warmth their body offered in the end.

She looked like the first sunlight on a fresh snowfall. Dressed in a light blue gown with subtle embroidery, her hair done up in a twist too complicated for you to follow with that one stray lock of hair brushing against her cheek. Mei was always beautiful. Now she was breathtaking, and you needed to breathe to do your job. No one expected her to get attacked at the Climatologist’s Gala, she wasn’t the most prominent combat agent in Overwatch and spent most of her time deep in research. Every mission with her was generally out in the middle of nowhere prying an eco-point out of the muck it was buried under. But Winston still insisted on a bodyguard and he insisted on you.

You could only keep your composure when she wasn’t looking at you. Every time she glanced your way she just seemed to see everything you had so carefully locked away. Every secret and every insecurity, right there in her eyes. Oh, there was no one more trustworthy to know you so well, but there was also no one more dangerous. You adored her too completely. But you could, you could concentrate on the job. This was too important. She was too vital. But it was just a climate gala. Scientists talking about clouds. There couldn’t possibly be a threat here.

“Dr. Zhou and Spouse?” Mei smiled and handed an invitation to the attendant at the doors while you tried not to choke on your own surprise. She practically dragged you into the building, softly laughing while you caught your breath in a quiet hallway just off the foyer. 

“Is something wrong?” She covered her starlight smile with her hand, though she couldn’t cover the way her eyes danced in mirth.

“I- um… I wasn’t prepared-or to..told it’s fine. It’s fine I’m, everything’s fine.” Everything was not fine. Winston should have given you some kind of warning that you were posing as Mei’s… Fucking Winston. You attempted to pull yourself into some sort of professionalism. No blushing, no stuttering, no looking Mei in the eyes as she so gently slid her hand into yours and kept you close as the two of you joined the party.

You could hardly hear the words Mei was sharing with the other scientists passing by. All you could hear was the sound of rushing blood and your own rising embarrassment. She was so beautiful. And now every single person you spoke with thought the two of you were together. You were closer than you should be to passing out, and closer than you should be to murdering Winston. Everyone had found Morrison, he could take over again. Ugh no. This wasn’t Winston’s fault. He probably didn’t even know that you felt like this about-

“-so shy! Sweetheart?” Mei’s lips broke you from your anxiety induced haze, gently pressed against your cheek. You were guided again, swiftly, away from the group of inquisitive scientists and to a tiny balcony with just enough air to let you breathe again. She held your hand so gingerly. She looked upon your face so tenderly. Her hand against your face, eyes checking yours-

Going on this mission was a mistake.

“I’m, I’m so sorry Mei, I need to call someone else, I can’t do this-” You immediately pulled out of her reach, a slight shake to your hands. It was overwhelming. You were never good at undercover work to begin with. You were like, like Reinhardt. More of a burst through the wall kind of person as opposed to a delicate dance of wordplay type. Especially not with Mei there. Perfect, wonderful, out of your league Mei.

“Oh no I-” Mei slumped a little. “Please don’t be sorry. It’s my fault. I told Winston it would make for a nice date, and asked him to help me and… I’m so sorry. I should have talked to you first. I-ha, I must have misread things.”

You said nothing for a moment. What she was saying was important and you heard her, you did, but you needed to clear your head more than anything. It was important to breathe and let your own thoughts settle. Or you would just. Tumble through this. Loose and without any idea what you were doing. So you breathed. And things fell into place. Like the first snowfall.

“Mei, is this meant to be an, actual date?”

“Well… No and, yes. Yes. I wanted to spend time with you.”

You had just enough tact not to laugh. It would be the only tact you spent that entire evening but this was the one time not to do it, even though you were filled with joy. You clasped her face in your hands and lifted her chin to look at you.

“Mei-Ling Zhou. There is not a subtle bone in my body, please never be subtle with me again I will die. I love you very much but I will Die.”

Mei laughed, wrapping her arms around you. “You love me?”

“Yes, very much.” You murmured before kissing her as slowly as you could. Savoring every sweet moment of affection. Mutual affection. Mei broke the kiss, nodding her head back towards the gala.

“We do have to go in there again, you know.”

“Not if I jump off this balcony I don’t.”

“You’ll go in there even if I have to science the heck out of you.”

You smiled and with your most dramatic possible sigh, followed her back into the party. Into scientists talking about clouds, where the only threat was the look she kept shooting you when no one else was looking.


	43. Unsaid (Moira O'Deorain x Reader, Requested)

When Moira was told a defensive agent was finally being brought up into Blackwatch she was expecting a wall of a human being, or a massive omnic. But you, you were almost catlike. Athletic but not muscular. You were could even be considered soft if one were to brush up against you. Not that Moira did that often or intentionally. She just, she just knew that you were soft. That you were sweet.

That you were reckless.

You were so god damned reckless it drove her up the wall. Perhaps it was the nature of your capabilities. Your regeneration, that outpaced other enhanced healing projects that she had seen before, lead you towards the maddening habit of running towards danger. Bullet wounds were only temporary to you. Only temporary to everyone if you really thought about it. She hated it. Hated the way you kept forgetting your armor. Hated the way that you kept yourself between her and threats. Hated the way that you always had a bottle of her favorite water on hand. A piece of her favorite candy in your pocket.

From a tactical perspective, your strategies had merit. You drew fire and gave your team time to get their jobs done. From Moira’s perspective though…

She hated working with you.

You played ambivalence. Doctors weren’t necessary for you. You never got sick, and your injuries fixed themselves. Usually fast enough to avoid a bloody snail trail back to the drop ship. You didn’t need her help with your wounds, but you also didn’t mind that she was there. It wasn’t your job to have an opinion on her presence. Her confident presence. Her unyielding presence. Her mysterious presence. 

It might not be your job but it was certainly your hobby. It would be woefully inappropriate You had a job to do. You had to keep her safe, protected. That wouldn’t happen if you were busy gazing at her like a starstruck deer. So you played ambivalence and played it well. In your opinion. Perhaps others disagreed. Perhaps, if you were to ask anyone else in Blackwatch or even Overwatch, they would’ve thought the two of you were already involved. But you weren’t, and you couldn’t, and you… You were just going to do your job.

There were a lot more guards than you were expecting. Almost as though they had been tipped off; warned that Blackwatch was coming. There shouldn’t be this many guns, shouldn’t be this many bullets flying towards your team. Towards Moira.

You just did your job. 

The bullets ripping through your skin were just part of the job. The pain, another part of the job. The blood, all of the blood. Part. Of. The. Job. The furious scream that rang out as you went down… That wasn’t. What was that? You couldn’t see through the blurs in your vision. Couldn’t hear anything else through the blood rushing past your ears. It wasn’t the first time you went down. Probably wouldn’t be the last.

You woke up to a cloud of soft, pale yellow. Gentle yellow. You were on the ground… no, metal. You weren’t outside. There was something soft under your head… okay, you weren’t in the field anymore. Someone had pulled you back. That was something you would have to yell at them about either; it was no one’s job to get distracted chasing the distraction.

It was, however, Moira’s hobby.

Somehow you weren’t surprised to see the cloud fade away into her displeased face. She deftly checked you over for injuries, apparently satisfied with whatever she found. You certainly didn’t hurt. She must have really flooded your system to heal fast enough to blot out that pain. It also meant that she stopped mid-mission to do it. You wouldn’t still be on the ground if the team had gotten back to base before treating you. The others could still be in danger… And yet you sort of. You sort of didn’t care. You were fine. Moira was fine. That was fine.

“I won’t have you falling in battle again.” There was rage tinted at the edges of her voice. And something else. Something that seeped deeper than her words. Something she spread with the gentle brush of her fingers through your hair. Something that she didn’t say and neither did you. Stubbornness. Fear.

“Do you intend on locking me up, doctor?” Neither flirtatious, nor a challenge, nor even what you were really asking. It was a different question. One connected with the way you rested your forehead against the palm of her hand.

“If you insist on being reckless I might as well make you invulnerable.” 

“Don’t want anyone else touching me hm?” A joke. Or was it? Moira gripped your collar, lifting you closer to her face. Apparently satisfied that your injuries were thoroughly taken care of. Her face was as serious as it ever was, eyes still traced in anger. Filled in with that something else. Something sweet and deep. Like the finest honey.

“No.”


	44. Home (Jesse McCree x Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone requested humorous McCree Fluff but I have zero reading comprehension so I didn't do that. But McCree is in it. Does that count?

You were a mess for a while. A real, long while. It took a lot of time, and effort, and lucky breaks to change. Leaving the theft game was hard. The money had been good. But you wanted to change, so you did. There’s pride in that. Things aren’t great, you feel a lot of doubt, a lot of insecurity. Letting people in was never your strong point but now… The wrong person could tilt it all over.

It was risky to let McCree know where you lived. Risky to let him in your home. Risky to let him sleep on the couch. He was a good man, he respected you and only ever treated you with kindness. But you were on a tightrope between good and bad and it constantly felt like you were going to tilt back the way you came. You were scared. But you couldn’t make yourself push him away. You didn’t want him to go. You wanted him there, and that was… that made it dangerous.

You crept away from your own bed not sure where you were going to go. Just the bathroom of course. A shower would be nice. But then clothes went on, street clothes, socks, shoes. A cup of coffee in a travel mug. What were you doing, where were you going? You didn’t know. You just. Didn’t know.

A gentle hand folded over yours as you shakily tried to put creamer into your drink. The familiar weight of a heavy metal arm wrapped itself around your waist. McCree kissed your cheek before taking over, preparing not just your mug of coffee but another one. He didn’t say a word. For all the times McCree never stopped talking when on missions or just around your friends he could go hours without saying a word between the two of you. Not because he was ignoring you. He just spoke in other ways. He said he understood by standing there fully dressed and handing you your drink. He said he’d help by taking your hand as the two of you left your apartment. He said that he was content to wander the world with you by doing just that. 

Every step through the darkened city streets was a promise. It would be okay. Everything was going to be okay.

It was hard to believe him. Things had never felt less okay than they did the day you agreed to join the new Overwatch. It was a risk and you felt like the hammer was going to drop any day now. Either your past would catch up to you or you would finally get arrested the one time you were trying to do the right thing. There was hurt on the horizon and it was your every instinct to run forward and get it over with. Bring on the hurt so it couldn’t creep up on you. It was reckless, it was needless, and the urge was nearly irresistible. But a warm hand squeezed yours and you looked up into the calmest smile. The warmest eyes.

It will be okay.

It’s dawn before you finally stop walking. Standing in the middle of a park before a water fountain that hasn’t been properly serviced in months. It was covered in rust with water leaking out of the ‘fountain’ park in a sputtering drip. You aren’t sure if it’s just partially turned off or if this is what it’s like at full blast. Either way you stare at it, hovering an empty coffee cup near your lips.

You don’t feel okay. There’s a great well of fear that sits in the pit of your gut and waits until the middle of the night to remind you just how deep it really is. But McCree squeezes your hand and you know that you have a way to climb back up out of the pit when it drags you down each night.

“Ready to head home?” He asks. But it’s not what he’s saying. His fingers entwined with yours, his presence at your side, it’s him offering to be your home. Your lifeline. You nod in agreement but that’s not what you’re saying either. You thank him with a squeeze of your hand. You accept his help with a kiss on his lips. You agree that it will be okay, someday, some time in the future, with every step the two of you take back towards your little apartment.

It was a risk to let McCree into your home. But sometimes risks pay off. Sometimes things will be okay.


	45. Teach them Fear (Ashe x Reader)

You spent a lot of time with mud caked somewhere on you. In your hair. Under your nails. Soaking into your skin. As much as you wanted to be mud-free at all times it wasn’t practical. The world was a dirty, filthy place and that often left you stuck coated with earth and grease. It sucked. It sucked but you couldn’t change it so you didn’t bother. You didn’t have the time or energy to dedicate to getting upset over another shitty thing about this world that you couldn’t fix. You just had to keep going. Had to move forward.

The rain made this easier though. The air was clogged with fog so thick you could barely see the filth covering you let alone another human being. Which meant they also couldn’t see you. Couldn’t see you crouching near a chain link fence with a pair of wirecutters. Couldn’t see you snapping open a hole just big enough for you to crawl through. You got more mud smeared into your clothes but you didn’t care at this point. What was more dirt. What was more sin. You were what you were and there was no amount of soap and water capable of changing that.

And that was fine. It really was.

You had been watching this place for a while. A warehouse owned by a group of people even worse than you were. Rotten creatures. There were none of them outside but that was little surprise. Heaven forbid they get tough enough to stand a little sky water. It might make their beards soggy or worse, get into their socks. You could really feel for them. You would leave a blanket for them if you had one. But you wouldn’t have shit unless you could get out of here alive.

The warehouse seemed quiet. You pressed your ear against the cold metal door and heard nothing. Looked under the door and could see no shifting of shadows in the dim light. You jiggled the handle and when it didn’t open you got to work with your locksmithing tools. Stolen, like everything else. But it was a real teach a man to fish situation. You could’ve sold them and bought yourself a couple of sandwiches but wasn’t it a far better idea to pay for the ability to open a dozen other scores. How many shady motel rooms had you managed to settle in because you’d picked locks just like this one? You were in with a little patience and a twist of your wrist.

It was quiet. There hadn’t been many guards in all the nights you’d spent watching this place, but there was literally no one here tonight. It was dead silent. A horrible decision for a storage building but hey, you didn’t know anything about running a business. You only knew about security measures to get around them. And even then your best bets were places like this. Too cheap and unappealing for anyone but you to rob. Items were arranged haphazardly on shitty rusted shelves. Hell. Items were propping up the shitty rusted shelves. Wet and molded boxes bulging at the sides from the stress of holding it all up. The lights were dim when they worked, the bulbs covered in dead insects and grease. Most of them didn’t work. Most of them were dark, most of them were busted. They didn’t seem to care about fixing broken lightbulbs. Or fixing the leaking hole in the roof. Or fixing the cracks in the concrete floor, warning signs of a failing foundation. Or fixing anything at all.

Worked for you. Left them wide open for you to take whatever it was that you wanted. You headed for the cleanest shelves first. Boxes of computer parts and other electronics. Most of it too heavy to be worth your while but a few boxes of high-end phones made their way into your bag. You could sell those at a couple of pawn-shops. Maybe even a game store if it was late enough at night and the manager didn’t care. There were omnic parts and you could get a good dollar if you could get those to the right person but they were huge and your only vehicle was you. A shame. A real shame. Transportation was going to have to be your next buy. Or steal. If you could get something that wasn’t chipped or locked down. Maybe you would take a look in the parking lot when you were done. If they didn’t care for their goods maybe they wouldn’t care for their cares either. You’d never hotwired before but, there was a first time for everything.

You’d managed to scavenge quite a few useful things from the shelves. A gun and ammo. Talk about one hell of a score. Weapons were expensive and most people kept them under watch. It was careless to leave them in the middle of a shelf like they were just as important as some old engine parts. Not that it was the best gun, and not that you knew it worked for sure. But you could get it fixed if it didn’t. It was having it that was important. Holding it in your hand made you feel safer than you’d felt in weeks. You could get away with a whole lot more now. A car part could buy you a sandwich. A gun could get you the car.

It took you too long to hear the sounds of fighting. Thuds, crashing, and a loud echoing gunshot. You panicked and tried to load the gun while you scrambled for the exit. You were careless and someone must have heard-

There was a rifle barrel against the side of your face. It was not cold. They were always described as cold, weren’t they? Cold, hard metal. But that was assuming they hadn’t just been fired. Like the gun had just been sitting around waiting just for you. This barrel was warm. So you wouldn’t be the first person they shot tonight. And definitely not the first person they’ve shot, ever. Even if you finished loading the gun and tried to turn it on them you would be way too slow. All you could do is slowly turn to stare at the woman pointing the gun at you. You weren’t expecting the snow white hair, pristine and perfectly styled. Or the bright, piercing red eyes. You were expecting the smug smile though. She did get the drop on you after all. Not that it was very hard. You weren’t paying attention. You weren’t listening. You got ahead of yourself and let yourself get way too into picking stuff up like you were at the fucking grocery store. This is what happened when you fucked up. There were consequences and this time, the consequences were very attractive. Just your luck.

“You alone?”

“Yes.”

“How’d ya get in?”

“Lockpicks.”

“You’re quiet.”

You were? Maybe. But not quiet enough. She noticed you, and she noticed you while she was busy shooting up whoever just died. It was frustrating and disappointing but you didn’t have time to dwell on any of that. The woman slowly lowered her rifle and reached out to grip your jaw, lifting your head up.

“Want to stop bein’ alone?”

“What.”

She let go and stepped back, motioning to the people filing in behind her. Some human, some omnic, all wearing the same leather vest. So they were, organized. Very organized. But that meant they knew what they were doing. Why would they want some dirt covered fuck off the street, so to speak. All she knew about you was that you were in desperate need of a bath and that you couldn’t load a gun very quickly. But she just smiled, and leaned towards you, and prodded you in the chest with her rifle.

“You look like you could use a family. And what do you know, we have space we’re lookin’ to fill. The guys here were jokes but if you could prey on them well. What could you do with a little help?” She lowered the rifle and offered her hand.

And it was weird. It was suspicious. You were literally no one with nothing. But you were, no one. With nothing. And you were so, so fucking tired. You were tired of being covered in mud, tired of sleeping in the dirt, tired of watching your shoulder. How much worse could your life get? How could this possibly go wrong in any way that mattered. Yeah, maybe you got shot. But if maybe you’d sleep in a bed first. Maybe you would get arrested. What a surprise. What a shock. You, getting arrested. Who would have guessed. When you were at rock bottom even the sharp glass-covered boulder looked like it was a step up. You had nothing to lose. So you shook her hand.

“Good. Name’s Ashe. Welcome to the Deadlock Gang.”

“Wait like. The Deadlock Gang?” The ones that got so big it forced Overwatch to come after them and that still didn’t help? They got smacked on the wrist at worse and that definitely wasn’t because Overwatch didn’t try to fuck them up. Ashe smiled, tossed an arm over your shoulder, and guided you out of the warehouse with a laugh.

“Yeah. The Deadlock Gang. Our, family.”

Family huh? That was an interesting way to put it. You didn’t know if you would feel the same way about a group of strangers who technically recruited you at gunpoint, but at least she seemed friendly. They all did, laughing as they piled onto a truck, setting you in the middle of the group, drinks tossed around in between wads of cash. You smiled hesitantly. You could give family a try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If y'all like this, I intended to turn it into a full fic. Let me know what you think.


End file.
